The Hell-er-nator: Tin Man's Alley - Part I
by Ironbear
Summary: One might think that destroying the Terminator would put an end to things. And anywhere else, it just might. But this is the Hellmouth, and when has anything ever been that easy here? It's shaping up to be just kind of a bad day to be a Good Guy...
1. Preview and Teaser -

**The Hell-er-Nator III: Tin Man's Alley**

**Part I: "In Durance Vile"**

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**When You've Been Dealt a Losing Hand...**

… _**It's time to kick over the tables and deal yourself a brand new game.**_

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Brevet Captain Michaela Reeves grinned inwardly like a she wolf. The suddenly panicked phone call that Deputy Doctor Walsh would be receiving around 1:35 to 1:45PM was just _bound_ to increase her irritation and discomfort level...

The two people also standing with Walsh made Michaela's palm itch for the pistol grip of her battle rifle.

One male, one female. Both of them extremely well groomed, dark haired, fairly young, and attractive. Both of them wearing expensively tailored suits. Armani, her mental catalog supplied. Both of them had briefcases open on the table before them, pushed slightly to the side, and open laptop computers.

Lawyers. Wolfram and Hart.

"Miss," Mayor Richard Wilkins said. His eyes swept over her insignia, and he modified that slightly, "Captain. A pleasure to meet you, finally. I am a bit at a loss for the reasoning behind this meeting and press conference being called here now, especially on such short notice."

"Brevet Captain Michaela Reeves, United States Army, currently attached to the Ninth Infantry Division, sir," Michaela said, her tone and posture extremely formal. "I can assure you: the pleasure is all mine, Mr. Mayor. And as to the purpose of the meeting – "

Just _perfectly_ on cue.

The deep rumbling sound of a pair of extremely powerful diesel engines coming up Main Street/Wilkins Boulevard from the west could suddenly be heard as they turned the corner leading to the Town Square. The noise increased in volume until it almost shivered the glass in the conference room's windows, and the various reporters headed that direction to look out and down. With the exception of Kolchak and White, who knew what was happening...

They, and Jain with a hand held video camera, moved there also, Kolchak and White speaking quietly into lapel mikes.

The engine rumble peaked, and then cut back abruptly to a low idle as the Bradley Armored Combat Vehicle and the 105mm Stryker variant took up stations at either end of the square. The pair of armed Humvees with their detachment of MPs were almost silent by comparison.

"The purpose of this meeting," Michaela picked up again and continued smoothly, "Is to inform you, the rest of the Civilian Administrative Heads of Sunnydale City and County, and the local citizenry that I am, by virtue of the powers, latitude, and the authority invested in me, declaring a state of Martial Law to be in existence in the City and Township of Sunnydale and the County thereof, as of this moment."

The babble of voices at the windows cut off abruptly as the words and their meaning sank into the various reporters, and then picked up again as a low murmur. From the corner of her eyes, Michaela could see Kolchak and White grinning like a pair of wolves.

"As of now, I am, in effect, the Military Commandant of Sunnydale and its environs," Michaela said, finishing.

She couldn't have gotten more effect with a cluster bomb, or that JDAM that Briggs had mentioned.

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**Tin Man's Alley, Part I: **_**In Durance Vile**_ begins Thursday at a fanfiction site near you.

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	2. Prologue and Disclaimers -

**The Hell-er-Nator III: Tin Man's Alley**

_by Ironbear_

A Buffy the Vampire Slayer-The Terminator crossover Event.

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** "****The Hell-er-nator: ****Tin Man's Alley****"** – Xander Harris, Cordelia Chase, and ensemble cast (YAHF x-over: The Terminator)

**Story Blurb:** One might think that destroying the Terminator would put an end to things. And anywhere else, it just might. But this is the _Hellmouth_, and when has anything _ever_ been _that_ easy here?

**Title:** "Hell-er-nator: The Chaos Machine"

**Author:** Ironbear

**Rating:** PG-13 (FR-18 at TtH) going all the way up to R or FR-21. There is sex, violence, threats of non-con, and bad language. And, at some points, violent death, some of it non-consensual. Actually, _all_ of the violent death is non-consensual. Those chapters will be marked and rated as FR-21 when they are posted if they're graphic enough to need it.

**Disclaimer:** Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Angel the Series and characters thereof belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, Warner Brothers, 20th Century Fox, and Kazui Entertainment. The Terminator, T2, and characters thereof belong to Orion Pictures, TriStar Pictures, Warner Bros, and James Cameron. The Event Group is _loosely_ adapted from the series by David L. Golemon, Macmillan publishing. Everyone else belongs to their respective owners too, except for my original characters, whom I suppose belong mostly to themselves.

This is a work of derivative fiction. All persons, characters, names, places, locations, entities, personages, and/or deities contained within are purely fictional, or fictional representations thereof, and any resemblance to any real persons, characters, names, places, locations, entities, personages, and/or deities are purely coincidental, or they are used in a purely fictional manner.

Don't worry: there will be a full list of credits and disclaimers in the afterword. There'll probably _have_ to be.

Opening title song lyrics are from "The Unforgiven III" by Metallica. Closing title lyrics are from "Silence Remains" by 3 Doors Down.

**Summary:** Xander Harris is wounded and out of action. Chief Warrant Officer Michaela Reeves, the last functioning survivor of the Black Company, has had her hands tied by her superiors. Cordelia Chase is in the hands of the Mad Scientist, Dr. Margaret Walsh of the Initiative. And there's still yet _another_ Terminator out there somewhere: the TX Model Harmony Kendall.

All in all, pretty much par for the course for the Scooby Gang and their allies.

They've got the bad guys surrounded, outclassed, and outnumbered. _Now_ all they have to do is convince the bad guys of that...

**Type:** Action-adventure, sci-fi, romance, military, super heroic, and even some horror.

**Chronology:** Takes place immediately following the events of "Ghosting the Machine".

**Pairings:** Xander Harris and Cordelia Chase, Jesse McNally and Aura, Jonathan Levinson and O.C., and others. Mostly canon. Mostly.

** Author's Note(s):** Part III of a multi-part part series. Part three covers the Buffy-verse version of the events between the end of the first Terminator movie and the beginning of the second. Kind of.

**Warnings!** Proceed at own risk! Sex, some verging on non-con, nudity, torture, death... oh my gods, is there death. It's a freaking _Terminator_ crossover. Whattya _expect_ fer crying out loud? Canon characters die. Canon characters get brutalized. Secondary canon characters die. OCs die. NPCs die. Cops die. People die both on _and_ off-screen. _Dead_ people die. There's _violence_: my fight scenes can be a bit visceral at times. There's snark out the wazoo (Geezus Keerist, it has Xander and Cordelia – of _course_ there's snark). There's rampant cuteness. There's kung fu, waif fu, quip fu, claw fu, vampire fu, and gun fu. There's even express rifle fu. Hell, there is _Cordelia_ fu. There's lame humor, bad humor, gallows humor, soldier's humor, and even inappropriate humor and humor during sex. There's brick jokes. There's what happened to the mouse? jokes. There's harsh language. There's anti-religious humor and snark. There's...

Oh, hell. It is over thirty freaking plus _chapters_ and over several hundred _thousand_ words long, total. I'm pretty damned sure there's _something_ in here to offend just about_ anyone_, and if I find I missed _your_ particular hot button issue, I can always rewrite a section to toss _it_ in there too. ;)

About the only thing I think I _didn't_ manage to pull off is character bashing. Hey – I actually _like_ all of the various characters, even the bad guys and the good guys that I can't stand. OK, maybe there's a couple that don't come off at their best, but they were pricks in canon, too. Other hand, there's a few I portray in a better light than their canon depictions, so, neener neener.

**Cast of Characters (Main):** Xander Harris, Cordelia Chase, Jonathan Levinson, Aura, Warren Mears, Tor Hauer, Heidi Barrie, Victor Creed; Detective Paul Stein; Joyce Summers, Dawn Summers, Riley Finn, and Professor Maggie Walsh, Consulting Psychiatrist. Several major OCs.

**Dramatis Personae (Secondary):** Screw it: it has a cast of freaking _hundreds_, at least.

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TIN MAN'S ALLEY:

In the aftermath of Halloween:

Xander Harris is badly wounded, hospitalized, and in protective custody.

Cordelia Chase is moderately wounded, captured, and in the hands of the one person that no one _sane_ would wish to be held by: Dr. Margaret Walsh of the Defense Research Initiative, and her crew of black operations thugs.

Chief Warrant Officer Michaela Reeves is the only ambulatory survivor of the ill fated Black Company, with a definite interest in Cordelia Chase. Unfortunately, she has been told in no uncertain terms that she is _not_ to acquire Miss Chase and deal with Doctor Director Walsh by the most effective and expedient means at her disposal.

Having survived the worst and deadliest Halloween in the history of Sunnydale, the First Sunnydale Irregulars and their allies have determined _not_ to disband.

Doctor Director Maggie Walsh badly wants the information locked in the minds of Cordelia Chase and Xander Harris, and she'll use any means at her disposal to acquire it. Unfortunately, the means she is prepared to utilize, while effective, are _not_ guaranteed to be survivable...

And the only thing standing in Maggie Walsh's path are a battered and wounded Chief Warrant Officer with limited resources, both hands tied behind her back, a commandeered Air Force Colonel, and a handful of civilian allies of unknown provenance and ability.

There's just a few things that Doctor Director Call-me-Maggie Walsh isn't aware of:

The Sunnydale Irregulars and the Scooby Gang consider Xander Harris and Cordelia to be two of their own, and they never, _ever_ leave their people behind or in enemy hands.

Jesse McNally, the once dead teenager who came back dressed as Iron Fist, Champion of Kun Lun, isn't real fond of that concept, either. And he now has the skills and ability to do something about it.

Neither are his friends, what's left that's ambulatory of the Scooby Gang. And _they're_ teamed up with an eclectic assortment of survivors of Halloween – not all of whom changed back... including what just might be two of the most dangerous teenagers in existence: Tor Hauer and Heidi Barrie.

And that Cordelia Chase was once a little girl who played at being the leader of the Seeonee Pack with Xander Harris.

Cordelia _Chase_ is _nobody's_ plaything, and she has determined that she will never be anyone or anything's victim, not ever again.

The girl who once _played_ at being the bitch she-wolf who stood against the Dhole, is all grown up now, and she's slipped her leash. And hey, guess what?

_She's_ not _playing_ any more.

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**The Hell-er-Nator: Book III – **

**Tin Man's Alley**

_by Ironbear_

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"_Always cheat, always win. The only unfair fight is the one you lose.__"_ – Rules for a Gunfight (Anonymous)

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**Prologue ****III****: ****The Moving Hand That Having Writ, Wipes Clean the Slate...**

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"_14) __Have a plan. __15) __Have a back-up plan, because the first one won__'__t work. __16) __Have a secondary back-up plan to your primary back-up plan in case CentCom or SecDef finds the first two plans __'__unacceptable__'__."_ — Rules for a Gunfight (Anonymous)

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_Monday, October 31, 2033; Groom Lake Complex (beneath Dreamland), Las Vegas Nevada; Night 11:17pm – _

"Time."

"And about time," Master Technical Sergeant Dwayne Hicks said, nodding. "Bide a moment."

Turning away from the doorway, he gave one long last look to his... huh. After all this time, he still wasn't sure what to call her. Not-a-wife. They'd never formalized the relationship. Hell, it'd been almost ten years of on again, off again relations before they'd even acknowledged that they _had_ one.

You tended not to do that in the Resistance. It hurt less that way when you lost them.

Hayden Guerra. Brunette, Puerto Rican/Irish, lean and curvy, barely five two-and-a-half, tan and blue eyed, and tough as nails and barbed wire. And not in the least bit girlish. As he would later observe to himself in a bar in Sunnydale, women in the Resistance tended to look like soldiers. Especially the soldier women.

What the hell. Girlfriend, mate, hunting partner, life partner. Wife in all but name. If there's a relationship there, _you_ name it.

"I'll be back," he said.

"Better be." There was a wealth of emotion in the blue eyes that locked fiercely on his own, and not a word of them spoken. None of them needed to be.

With a short, sharp nod, he turned back to the door and his escort, and left. Not looking back.

It wasn't true in this instance, but the fiction had to be maintained. Everyone comes back. It's a vow, not a promise.

Just a bit over a hair shorter than his not-a-wife, Major Benjy Sheridan, Tech-comm, and Command Sergeant of the First Sunnydale Irregulars looked him over coolly with a pair of large, clear gray eyes.

"Regrets?" she said, her tone neutral, betraying neither curiosity nor any particular caring.

"Always. Never."

"Hah." Beverly Sheridan barked out a short, humorless noise that might have been the breath of a laugh. "I get that."

Hicks carefully did not nod, but his expressionless mask and microscopic shrug probably conveyed the same understanding. She would, too...

Johnny Smith, aka Bucky Barnes, probably the closest thing that Beverly Sheridan ever had, and ever would have, to what he and Hayden did, had died in the Seattle Blackout Zones. And a long string of casual encounters since were not, and could never be, the same.

Those were just mutual stress relief, and human contact.

A long way through corridor and then an elevator down deep into the bowels of the place. Janus' beard, but the old Event Group complex beneath Groom Lake was fricking _huge_.

The elevator let them out onto a large foyer with another arched, branching corridor that led to the embarkation point for the Temporal Resonance Cascade Facility. What several of the older Resistance members, those who were old enough to remember from pre-Judgment Day, pre-Long Dark pop culture, had immediately dubbed: The Time Tunnel. The hand lettered sign over the station doorway to the platform for the high speed tram that would take them the rest of the way brought a ghost of a smile to Hick's lips. The irreverent nickname had caused no _end_ of irritation to the outsider scientists and techs working on the project.

Well, fuck 'em if they couldn't stand a joke. Or was that the other way around?

They picked up Major Cameron Blake of Hells-Gate Two's primary Team, HG-3, where the tram let them out. He and Benjy exchanged casual salutes and then bumped fists.

"Cam."

"Benj."

The stocky, dark haired Cameron gave him a cool and appraising once over also, much as Beverly had. Hicks didn't take offense. Hell, if one of the old time veterans wanted to find him wanting and upbraid him for something before pointing out how he could improve it, Hicks would gladly stand there and take it. And then nod and say, "Yes sir," or "Yes ma'am." Understood, sir or ma'am.

You did that with living legends. Especially the ones that had survived from the very beginning until now. _Especially_ the ones that had survived Sunnydale. And especially the ones like the Irregulars, who had survived not only that long ago, hellish Halloween, but the battle of the Cleveland Hellmouth, and the evacuation after. Or the ones like the Hells-Gate Team who had survived the desperate clusterfuck of the Battle of Des Moines, and, along with the thirty-six surviving Irregulars, had made it through the fighting withdrawal that came after.

There were living legends that _hadn't_ survived Des Moines.

"Ready to go?" Cam said.

"Ready as I'll ever be," Hicks said, meeting the dark eyes evenly and nodding.

"Hah." Nodding back, Cam gave out one of those breaths of a laugh also, with little humor in it. "I know. Ask a stupid question... "

"Sir, there are no stupid questions, sir!" Hicks said, snickering. "There are only stupid responses from Jar Heads, sir!"

_That_ got a genuine laugh, even if a small one, as he'd intended and hoped for.

"Ooh rah!" Benjy said, shaking her head. "Just don't crack that one around Lieutenant Sergeant Major Sweet, Tech-sergeant."

"No, ma'am," Hicks said, grinning. "I like all my parts still attached, ma'am."

His patrol partner was waiting already when Sheridan and Cameron delivered him to a calmly waiting Commander Seven. Technical Sergeant First Elston Geiger gave Hicks a nod and a broad grin.

"Ready, Master Tech-Sergeant?" Geiger said.

"Ready and almost willing," Hicks said, nodding back.

"Never could teach you the importance of 'never volunteer, Hicks," Geiger said, chuckling.

"Which I see that you learned so well yourself," Hicks said, acknowledging the quip with a nod and a tight smile..

If things went well, and worked as they should, they would both land somewhere within the environs of the city limits of Sunnydale, within a matter of a few minutes or so of each other. They would then be able to hook up at a preset rendezvous point, join forces, and complete their mission.

Hicks wasn't counting on everything going well. It never did.

The group waiting for them in the Temporal Resonance Chamber sent a crackle along his nerve endings, and straightened Hicks' spine with a snap. In the corner of his eye, he could see that it had the same effect on Geiger.

Not counting the several guest technical specialists and scientific geniuses, practically the Who's Who of Tech-Comm North America's scientific command staff was here, along with a few other notables.

Commander Seven, of course. Civilian Tech-Advisors Winifred "Fred" Burkle and Warren Mears. Plus assorted other lower ranked technical command staff. The only ones missing were Major Jonathan Levinson, and Commander Dawn Summers, and they were elsewhere on a different, unspecified mission.

Lieutenant General Wendie Sanders sent him an oblique glance, and said, "Glad to see you could make it, Master Tech-Sergeant." Her voice was amused, not chastising, and Hicks didn't take offense.

Couldn't really, even if the sight of her did make his heart jump and his breath nearly stop in his chest each and every single time.

Wendie Sanders had been incredibly lucky on the night of May 28, 2013. A stunt-woman and actress, she'd been on location in the north end of Central California's Big Valley working on some sort of film project when the nuclear air bursts had come down over Los Angeles at LAX, Los Angeles AFB in El Segundo, Longbeach, and Central L.A.. Somehow, MALCOLM's surprise launch had missed targeting Vandenberg...

Sanders had survived the Long Night of May 28 by taking charge of the security people, stunt people, and as many of the actors and crew as possible and leading them to the relative safe haven of an abandoned military base near Lake Tahoe... She'd survived the Long Dark in the days and months after by virtue of leading a handful of competent survivors to her family's vacation property outside of Boulder, Colorado. Her family, a husband and two children in Los Angeles, apparently hadn't been as lucky, nor as tenacious and resourceful. No trace of them had even been found.

The Resistance had been incredibly lucky as well, when she'd finally made contact with a strike group of the Irregulars' Second Scouts, and had been mistaken by them for someone _completely_ different.

While not identical in appearance, Wendie Sanders looked as much like Cordelia Chase-Harris as it was possible for someone who _wasn't_ an identical twin to do. Tech-Comm had not only gained a capable and driven soldier and then Commander, it had gained an invaluable resource.

Prior to Cordelia and Alexander Harris' deaths in 2023, Wendie's existence had helped cement Cordelia Chase as a legend, and as a boogie woman to the forces of MALCOM and ADAM II. _Somehow_, the Warrior Queen of the Resistance could manage to be in two places at once, to deadly effect. _After_ 2023, when the retrieval team led by Beverly Sheridan, Kyle Jordan Reese, and two of Tech-Comm's independent operators had brought back Cordelia and Xander's charred bodies and the gleaming skull of the Harmony Kendall Bot that had killed them...

_After_ 2023, General and Field Marshall Cordelia Chase-Harris and Tech-Commander Xander Harris-Chase had become immortal.

Shaking off the ever present disorientation that the semblance of his dead General caused, the corner of Hicks' mouth curled slightly in a smile.

"Well, ma'am, it _is_ time travel," Hicks said, "I didn't figure a few minutes either way would matter much."

Geiger made a choking noise next to him, and Hicks knew he was struggling to keep a straight face and not elbow Hicks in the side. The fairly straitlaced Geiger had never quite managed to get past nor used to Hicks' borderline insouciance around the true upper command levels of Tech-Comm's higher echelons. While Hicks could be as military and precise as anyone, especially on an op, he'd long ago gotten comfortable with being at least mildly flippant and irreverent with the very highest ranks.

It was really the only way that Hicks could manage to cope with being around legends, constantly, and still do his job.

He'd saved the awe and deference for General Chase-Harris, and Tech-Commander Harris-Chase.

Besides, aside from Morgan Chase-Harris, and Kyle Reese Harris, all of the upper echelon were just about as informal as it was possible to get and still have and maintain discipline. It was kind of difficult to be a militarily precise hard ass around them all the time. Especially when months of training with and close contact had bred familiarity...

"Let's hope so," General Sanders said, nodding. "It'd be a shame to waste all of the valuable time and training we've poured into you over the last few months."

"Yes ma'am," Hicks said, nodding back.

Besides, Hicks had a commonality with Sanders that Geiger lacked.

Hicks had been a teenager in San Diego when the Long Night fell, and the missiles came down on Naval Base San Diego and the San Diego International Airport. He'd been lucky: he and his family lived on the outer southeastern edge of San Diego, practically out in the countryside, and at that time of morning, he and his sister had been home asleep.

Mom and Dad hadn't been as lucky. They'd both been historians and curators at the Maritime Museum of San Diego, down in San Diego Bay and not nearly far enough from the Naval Station. They'd also been pulling a very late nighter getting the Californian prepped and ready for a tall ship sailing class group...

While he hadn't met the older woman until after he'd met and joined the resistance, the shared survivor experience made for a certain bond.

An idle and treacherous part of Hicks' mind wondered how his little sister, Janine, was faring off in the no man's lands of Blackout Seattle with Hells-Gate Three and the Second Scouts...

"So, how does this work again?" Hicks asked, shaking off the irrelevant – and distracting – line of thought.

Turning her head, Seven gave him a raised eyebrow and a skeptical look. "I would have thought that after all these months, the principles involved would have been more than adequately explained by now."

"Well, yeah," Hicks said, nodding. "More than explained. Adequately? I'm not so sure."

"If that is indeed the case, then a last moment encapsulation will hardly improve your understanding," she said.

"But, but... it's _you!_" Hicks said, the corners of his lips twitching. "I trust your explanations more."

Seven stared at him, and then, after a long moment, a touch of actual warmth came to those blue-gray eyes along with a touch of softness to those chiseled and classically beautiful features. Hicks was glad to see it... it had been a long, long time since anything resembling actual human warmth had touched Seven. Maybe Warren got to see it, in private. Not any of the rest of them. Not often.

Not since 2023, when the heart and soul of the Resistance had fallen, and had taken a lot of the warmth and laughter away with them.

Xander Harris used to be able to tease Seven out from behind what he'd always called 'The Great Wall of Borg'. Sometimes through sheer absurdity, sometimes through sheer good natured persistence. And Cordelia Chase had been able to as well, generally with a dry application of well timed and aptly chosen sarcasm.

But Xander Harris and Cordelia Chase were long dead, along with too many others, and human warmth seldom touched those cool eyes or that perfect face any more.

Seven had always had a bit of a soft spot for Hicks, though...

"I see. Very well," Seven said, nodding abruptly.

"Oh boy!" Hicks bounced on his toes in front of her, grinning from ear to ear. "Please! Tell me a story Auntie Seven! You tell the bestest stories!"

Shaking her head almost imperceptibly, Seven said, "Once upon a time, and a long time ago, because that is the way that stories are supposed to begin... "

Stopping in his tracks, Hicks gaped at her momentarily.

Seven arched an eyebrow again. "We _did_ have a holodeck on Voyager, at least in my other life. It _was_ used, on occasion, to reenact what you would call 'fairy tales'."

"Ah. I see," Hicks said, nodding. "The momentary shock got to me. Carry on."

Fred let out a snicker that sounded involuntary, and clapped a hand over her mouth. Her eyes were wide and dancing behind her glasses as she watched the byplay. One of the guest scientists, Hicks could never remember his name, scowled and started to open his mouth –

Without looking or changing expression, Warren Mears drove an elbow sharply back into the man's side, under the floating ribs, and the wind went out of him with a quiet _whoulf_ as he doubled over.

Not bothering, or possibly even deigning to notice the interactions, Seven kept her blue gray eyes locked on Hicks' blue ones.

"We were unable to duplicate the technology that MALCOLM and CAIN used to make the jumps transporting their operatives back into the time stream," she said. "The schematics and parameters that we were able to download from the command base at Black Mesa were incomplete. However, once the Command Sergeant here," she indicated Benjy with a nod, "And her team, as well as Hells-Gate One's teams sent to Seattle and Cheyenne Mountain returned, we were able to locate information and data leading us to the progenitors of MALCOLM's and Black Mesa's temporal project."

"Project Backstep, and Project Leapfrog," Hicks said, nodding. "And another one. All of which are still really just names to me." He grinned at her, adding, "I'm basically a commo and heavy ordnance and weapon systems tech remember? All of the particle physics and quantum mechanics stuff is still way over my head."

"Which would indicate that this recap is wasted as well," Seven said, her voice dry. "However... both Janeway and Tech-Commander Harris-Chase would have said that efforts to fortify morale are never truly wasted."

"The Tech-Commander was a wise man," Hicks said, deadpan.

"Heya, Hicksey," his partner said. "If your morale is still fucked at this point, we are _so_ very screwed."

Both Hicks and Seven ignored him. "I will do my best to boil this down into layman's terms that even the intellectually challenged, such as a non-comm, can understand," Seven said, her eyes still glinting with something resembling a touch of merriment.

_Ouch_. Maybe raising the ghost of Seven's sense of humor wasn't such a good plan. He'd forgotten how acerbic it could be...

"Ooh rah," Hicks said, still deadpan. "Tech-sergeant struggle with big words, but muddle through."

Nodding, Seven said, "Project Backstep was designed to use a chronosphere and a temporal displacement field to transport someone physically back through time. But it had limitations as to how far into the past it could reach. Project Leapfrog was designed to transport a mental essence temporally, infusing it into a compatible physical shell and displacing the previous mental essence temporarily. It also had drawbacks... "

Drawbacks such as the fact that the only person who'd ever attempted to use it, its creator, had become lost in an endless sequence of Leaps into various bodies and time periods...

"And finally, Project Flashback, which achieved a similar effect, only without the chronosphere, and sans the seven day limitation," Seven stated.

"But with the limitation that only organic materials could be transported," Hicks said, nodding.

"Correct. Preferably, living organic tissue, for optimal results," Seven said. "We determined," 'we' meaning her, Warren, Jonathan, Fred Burkle, Dawn Summers, and Dr. Carlssin, Hicks knew, "That the Flashback method was the predominate technology in Black Mesa's and MALCOLM's efforts. With certain elements of Backstep technology and Leapfrog temporal theory used to fill in the gaps of the surviving theoretical data."

"Hypothetically, anyway, considering that we had to bug out with only partial downloads," Hicks said, nodding again. Hell, he'd _been_ there on that retrieval mission to Hell... "and blow the facility to shreds behind us."

"Correct," Seven said. "However, with the data we were able to recover based on leads gained via those downloads, and others, and with the assistance of the personnel from the other two projects, we were able to successfully recreate a workable theory. The addition of my advanced knowledge of temporal physics and transporter technology was invaluable as well."

Heh. Not one for false modesty, Seven was. Not ever.

Then again, it was _false_ modesty to downplay it when the reality of both the invaluable assistance and the alternate future knowledge, as well as the sharp intellect driving it, was a simple fact.

"As were the examples of bleeding edge technology, intact computer systems, and examples and schematics of previous attempts at achieving temporal machinery that the Event Group had stored within this facility," Seven said, continuing. "We were able to construct, first, a workable composite theory of temporal physics, and secondly, a workable design for a temporal transference unit based on an amalgamation of those design parameters."

"And how do we know for certain that we're being sent to the right place?" Hicks asked, scowling. "And time?"

"That, among select other parameters such as the precise nature of the enemy that you'll be facing, is something that we _are_ certain of, Technical-sergeant," Seven said, her tone patient. "We not only managed to retrieve what we are more than reasonably certain are the temporal coordinates that MALCOLM's techs were using, but also the trace temporal resonance frequencies from the jump." At Hicks' raised eyebrows and inquiring look, she elaborated, "Temporal transitions leave a distinctive radiation trace that can be detected, measured, and recorded. I'm familiar enough with temporal mechanics and chronoton particle resonance from Voyager's experiences to be virtually certain that we're able to match the precise frequencies, even without having access to the identical technological– "

Holding up a hand, palm out, Hicks said, "I don't really need the theory behind it. Just so long as _you_ can show the math, I know it's there."

"Very well," Seven said, her lips twitching slightly.

General and Commander Wendie Sanders cocked her head slightly, studying Hicks, and a faint scowl creased her forehead. Shaking her head, her lips curled up faintly at the corners and she said, "And amazingly, you do seem much more at ease, Master Tech-Sergeant."

"Hey, no offense to our guests," Hicks said, shrugging, "But I _trust _Seven, Fred, Warren, and the others. _Workable_ from Seven's lips was what I was searching for. If _she_ says it's workable, and she sounds and looks _confident_ while saying it... " he shrugged again, "That's good enough for me."

And hey, yeah. Over the past six months off and on, he _had_ gotten massive gluts of the technical details and theory behind the transfer, and the technology. More than he'd even wanted to bother _trying_ to absorb. Before the Long Night, he'd been a brainy jock, not a sci-fi and physics geek.

He knew the theory and specs, at least in layman's language. He'd been wanting... well, familiar reassurance, he guessed. Like he'd said.

"And was my confidence sufficient to your needs, then, Technical Sergeant?" Seven said, her voice both curious and faintly amused.

"Never doubted you for a minute, Commander," Hicks said, smiling at her. He swept his gaze across the rest of the Resistance Technical and Scientific Command Group. "Any of you."

"Somehow, I'm doubting that," Fred Burkle drawled, her Texas peeking through just a bit. "Considering you looked as nervous as a wet cat when you first came in."

"Pre mission jitters," Hicks said, "That's all."

"Well, as long as they don't get in the way of doing the job, Sergeant," Commander Sanders said.

"Never have before, ma'am," Hicks said, his expression and tone suddenly serious. "One more quick question: whatever happened to Dr. Beckett?"

The various 'guest' scientists, Captain's Parker and Donovan, and Dr. Beeks exchanged glances, and shrugged, looking uncomfortable.

"We don't really know, Sergeant," Parker said, shrugging again. "Considering that he was caught up in a cascading Leap at the time that the Long Night fell and the bombs came down... "

Destroying the Project Leapfrog facility, Hicks finished for him, mentally. Meaning that the wandering Beckett had been either trapped in the past somewhere, or was still leaping from point to point with no guidance and backup, or else had been caught between leaps...

In which case his consciousness was either lost, stuck in some temporal limbo, or destroyed. Yuck.

"Well, let's hope that's not a precedent, then," Hicks said.

"It's a physical transfer, Hicks," Warren Mears said, speaking for the first time since Hicks' arrival, "_Not_ a mental and spiritual one."

"Which sets my mind at no end of ease, Doctor Mears," Hicks said.

"So... is it time for us to discover who else is on the roster?" Geiger said, his voice carefully controlled to suppress traces of frustrated curiosity.

Hicks shared both, the frustration and the curiosity. They'd both known, obviously, that there _were_ other teams and operatives. At least four of MALCOLM's agents had jumped out of Black Mesa's temporal lab before their assault had shut it down.

Who was on them and where they were headed was a closely guarded secret, though, even from each other. Everyone involved on that end, including Hicks and Geiger, were sequestered in different areas of the vast underground Event Group complex, and training and briefing times were staggered. None of the teams involved ever bumped into each other, at least that they knew of...

"You don't have a need to know that, Tech-Sergeant First," a familiar and commanding voice said.

Hicks and Geiger both snapped to rigid attention as Field Marshall and General of the Armies Morgan Chase-Harris and Tech-Commander Kyle Jordan Reese Harris entered the temporal lab.

"Sir!" Geiger said, snapping a salute. "Just my curiosity getting the best of me, sir."

"Oh, at ease, Sergeant," Kyle Reese drawled, looking mildly amused. "You wouldn't be human if you didn't have a certain amount of that."

"Just doesn't mean that it's going to be satisfied," Morgan said, nodding. "What you don't know, you can't give away."

"Sir, yes sir," Hicks said, relaxing into an at ease stance.

Didn't matter, anyway. They knew there were other teams and operatives. And other missions planned to send people back as prep teams to help pave the way for the future resistance and its formation.

They had already determined, Hicks had no idea how, that the Long Night and MALCOLM II _couldn__'t _be prevented via temporal means. Something to do with Hellmouth Cascade Resonance...

Or maybe with Hitler's Time Travel Exemption Effect, for all of him.

Commander Reese-Harris and Field Marshall Chase-Harris' android bodyguards fell into position nearby, and assumed the unnatural stillness that passed for relaxed stances in both of them. Weapons at high ready, two sets of human appearing mechanical eyes swept the surroundings in precise increments, flickering emotionlessly from person to person in their range of vision.

Hicks suppressed an involuntary shudder. While he, along with the majority of the Resistance, had no particular prejudices toward _anyone_ within the Alliance – he worked regularly with non-humans of most descriptions, more than a few allied demons, various half breeds, and others – he really didn't care for reprogrammed Terminators. Didn't trust them, no matter who did the reprogramming. Not trusting Terminators and not giving them a chance to get close – or even into line of sight – was ingrained deep into his blood and bones by now.

And while he wasn't, couldn't possibly be a technophobe, not and do his job, he didn't care much for the Resistance's own _anti_-Terminators, either. Or really, any of the sentient, semi-sentient, or programmed robots, androids, and cybernetic organisms that Mears, Seven, and Burkle had come up with over the years.

A.L.I.C.E., an acronym for '**A**rtificial **L**iving **I**ntelligence **C**ybernetic **E**ntity', and A.P.R.I.L.: '**A**nalytical **P**ositronic **R**easoning **I**ntelligent **L**ifeform (Simulation)', were Warren Mears' and Seven's first and oldest answers to the problem of an anti-Terminator response. Twenty-years after the fall of the Long Night, they were still the very best of those responses, they and all of their siblings. Hardened circuitry, positronic brains, flexible learning routines, and mimicry ability and all, they were capable of rendering themselves virtually indistinguishable from human in both appearance and mannerisms. Whenever they chose, at least...

Generally, when on full alert and on bodyguard duty, they didn't always choose, and it was then that their inhuman nature and sheer alienness was most apparent. Such as now, when looking at them was like taking a guided tour of the uncanny valley...

Morgan Chase-Harris' two android bodyguards made him uncomfortable. One of the reprogrammed Terminators gave him the sheer creepy feeling down the spine willies. He would have been glad to see all _three_ of them absented, not merely the captured and reprogrammed Xander Harris model T-888 that was Wendie Sanders' bodyguard and nearly constant companion...

There were those among the Resistance that speculated that Commander Sanders and the T-888H kept up the masquerade and appearances even in private and behind closed doors, with all that that entailed. Hicks wasn't one of them, and _no one_ speculated on it out loud around him.

Not more than once, anyway.

The fact of ALICE and APRIL being _here_ and on guard spoke volumes. It meant that Erin Whittaker and Ashley Cauldwell, Morgan Chase-Harris and Kyle Jordan Reese's normal Slayer bodyguards were _elsewhere_ and out on mission with their teams. Somewhere, some unlucky elements of MALCOLM's forces were coming up against the sharp end of Whittaker's Wild Bunch and Cauldwell's Carnivores. A pity, that.

Erin and Ashley were not only two of the Slayers called during the Mass Awakening in the Fall of Sunnydale, but they were two of the four deadliest beings that Hicks personally knew of. Lack of tech bigotry or no, he'd _much_ rather have had them _here_, and ALICE and APRIL _elsewhere_.

_Slayers_ didn't give him the cold shivers along the spine.

"Time?" Kyle said, turning to Fred and Mears, and Hicks dismissed thoughts of the two androids from his mind.

"Nine minutes and thirty, Commander," Fred said, nodding. She turned to her console, frowning at it. "All systems nominal, all systems powered. We are a go."

"Let's do it then," Morgan said, giving Hicks and Geiger a crisp nod.

Stripping down to skin quickly, both men handed their clothing and effects off to a tech and moved toward the temporal chamber. Neither Hicks nor Geiger hesitated in stripping down in front of the assembled scientists, officers, and techs: modesty didn't last long in the Resistance. Major Sheridan and Major Blake followed, both of their eyes carefully scanning the two men for anything overlooked that might cause an issue.

Pulling the chain with his dog tags over his head, Hicks handed them to Benjy Sheridan. "Make sure that Hayden gets these, will ya?" he said, "And tell her... tell her I'll be back."

The Mercenaries' Toast. Everyone comes back. It's a hope, not a promise.

Even if it wasn't true, it was a polite fiction. And everything else had already been said.

"Will do, Sergeant," Beverly said, nodding. Cool gray eyes met and locked with Hicks' blue ones, and she bumped her fist against his. "Last words?" she asked, and the gray eyes crinkled with a hint of amusement. "Final minute bad ass boast?"

That same hint of amusement touched his own, matching the twitch of a smile ghosting across his lips, and he shook his head. Naw. He'd already passed command of the Harriers over to Hayden, as Hardesty had long ago passed them to him. Nothing more to be done or said.

And if it gave lie to the 'everyone comes back', then what of it? Sometimes the polite fictions are the only important ones.

"Naw." That ghost of a smile touched and lingered a moment, and Hicks gave her a slight shake of the head and a miniscule eyebrow raise. "Don't _need_ to boast. I just _am_ that badass."

Benjy snickered softly, and nodded. "Get 'er done, Hicks."

"Do the job, Benjy," Hicks said, bumping hers back.

She stepped back and away as Hicks stepped into the area of the chronosphere, and dropped to one knee on the platform. Resting his weight on the ball of his other foot and his right fist, his left hand went automatically to the small leather folder on its thong around his neck.

He flipped it open for one last minute quick look at the pair of photos inside, and then shut it, and brought it to his lips before letting it hang again.

Talismans and rituals. If a military doesn't have them, then soldiers will invent their own...

Supposedly, the polymimetic life field mimicking organic polymer coating that Fred had invented to cover the folder and its precious contents would enable it to make the jump as well, without issues. Hicks hoped so.

And he never _had_ gotten a satisfactory answer to why the same coating couldn't be successfully applied to a 40 megawatt M41-A3, or a 90 megawatt blast rifle.

Morgan and Seven came over in the last minutes as he closed his hand over the folder again, preparing himself mentally for the jump.

"Good luck, Sergeant," Morgan Chase-Harris said. "I won't state that you and your partner have the _most_ critical of all of the missions, but it _is_ critical."

Meaning: critical to the formation of the entire Resistance. Critical to the survival of Morgan's own parents. Back to the very beginning...

Critical to Morgan Chase-Harris' own birth, as a matter of fact.

"No pressure, sir," Hicks said, nodding. "I'll get 'er done."

Nodding, Morgan stepped away, and moved over to the other sphere platform to murmur a few words to Geiger.

Hicks glanced up at Seven, who was busily giving him a last moment once over with some sort of scanner. "So, will it hurt?"

He _hated_ that he suddenly sounded like a kid asking mom for reassurance at the doctor's office...

She glanced sidelong at him, away from her readouts. "Would you prefer a comforting lie, or the uncomfortable truth?"

"The truth, ma'am."

Seven nodded, her blue gray eyes remote again. "There will undoubtedly be some discomfort, that you will probably experience as pain."

"That's reassuring," Hicks said, smiling faintly.

"It will pass, Sergeant," Seven said. "Remember: it will pass." Pausing for a long moment, she added, "I also wish to add my desire for your and Sergeant Geiger's good fortune."

"Thanks. We'll get 'er done, ma'am."

Giving him a crisp nod, Seven moved to Geiger, to scan him as well. The outer shell of the chrono-sphere closed over him, and he lost sight of her, Geiger, the lab, and everything else in the sphere's inner darkness.

Long moments later, the crackling blue-white energy of the temporal displacement field swept over the sphere's inner surface. Then it pulsed, once, and cascading energies seemingly tore him apart and swept him away.

Some discomfort my narrow military ass, Seven...

* * *

_Friday, October 31, 1997: Downtown Sunnydale near East Lemon and 5th Street, Evening 5:30pm – _

The blue-white haze cleared from his vision and the searing, wrenching, twisting and near infinite tearing sensation of the temporal shift _finally_ ended. Jeezus Kee-_rist_!

They hadn't told him that a temporal leap would last damned near forever. Of course, it couldn't have, really – that was the point, supposedly. Here now, there then. Only transition, no duration. So it really _couldn't_ have been an endless frozen moment of soundless screaming and twisting, gut wrenching eternity. They hadn't told him it would _hurt_ so damned much, either.

_Some_ discomfort his buck naked _ass_, Seven.

Technical Sergeant Dwayne Hicks, Tech-Comm, Central North American Resistance Command, Serial Number: TZE08191221-51612, specialist in Combat Technologies and Heavy Weapons, Communications, Demolitions and Improvised Destructive Devices, and expert in Infiltration, Foraging, and Search and Destruction, looked around himself.

If everything had gone well, he was in Sunnydale, California, in the near past of just over three decades ago.

Permanently.

The thing that everyone at that final briefing and prep for the jump had silently acknowledged, but _no one _had spoken aloud.

One way or another, win or lose, survive or die, this was a one way trip. The only way he was going back to the future, at least that he was aware of, was the hard way. By living to see it.

Either his actions here in the past would be successful, and he would save the future by saving the future leaders and mother and father of the Resistance and of Tech-Comm Command. Or, he'd fail, and the Terminator that had come back in the slightly older and modified guise of one of the self-same future leader's former classmates would kill them, wiping out that future.

Or neither would occur. The very best guesses and theories by the very best minds that the Resistance had to offer leaned heavily toward the multiple worlds branch of temporal physics: that important events created branching time lines stemming off from certain cusp events in history. Decision trees.

In which case, he wouldn't save _his_ future. He'd save or lose the future of the time line he'd created by virtue of his arrival here.

He'd also save or lose the lives of the two people critical to the future of _both_ world lines...

Hicks couldn't help a shiver of anticipation laced with unaccustomed nervousness that raced along his spine and his nerve endings.

He, Master Technical Sergeant Dwayne Hicks, was about to meet and interact with Alexander Harris and Cordelia Chase, creators, builders, and leaders of Tech-Comm and the Resistance. Way, way back before they ever _became_ leaders, or warriors, or soldiers. Before they ever became living legends...

And _he_ was going to be an integral part of that early history, and that metamorphosis for _both_ of them.

Wow. Heady stuff for a former wanna be quarterback and teenage extreme sports fan from San Diego turned guerrilla fighter.

And, which it was didn't matter, really, just as long as he succeeded. Tech-Comm was, slowly but surely, _winning_ the war against the machines. And with over ten million human beings off of Earth and establishing technological civilizations on both Pylea, and on their other extra-dimensional redoubt, code named 'Pellucidar', humanity's survival was assured.

Plus, there was the other iron in the fire that no one talked about, or even thought about if they could help it, and that Command only knew the true details on. What _you_ didn't think about, the _enemy_ couldn't think of either. _Know_ it and _believe_ it.

MALCOLM and CAIN's days were numbered anyway. Hicks didn't know what it was – only a very select few did – but there was a plan in effect that would destroy and rid them of MALCOLM _forever_, when it went off.

One way or another, humanity was _not_ going into that Long Night. Not quietly, and not at all.

But that didn't mean that Hicks intended to fuck up and let his two personal heroes, Alexander Harris and Cordelia Chase get terminated. No way.

Not again, and not in this timeline. Not happening.

Okay. Enough maundering and wool gathering, Hicks. You have people to see, and things to kill.

_Thing_, anyway. But one of them was more than enough.

A quick check assured him that the small folder with the two photos of Cordelia Chase-Harris, and Alexander Harris-Chase had both made the jump and survived the transition. Thankfully. And good. They'd been a part of him for way, way too long for him to want to lose them now.

Time to move.

Just over seventeen minutes later, he had acquired clothing, a vehicle, and weapons courtesy of a pair of Sunnydale County deputies, and was on his way.

Technical Sergeant First Elston Geiger wasn't at the prearranged rendezvous point. Master Tech-Sergeant Dwayne Hicks never learned what became of him, and never saw him again.

Thirteen minutes after that, he was seated at the bar of a local teen club called 'The Bronze' watching one of his subjects and wondering how to approach her. Wondering as well how, or if, he was going to be able to locate his other subject.

And wondering where the Terminator Model T-101L was at that moment, what it was doing, and who it was terminating.

Just over an hour and thirty five minutes later, he would be discovering that something had gone badly, drastically, disastrously _wrong_ with the Backstep process. And he wouldn't have a single clue one what to _do_ about that, or if anything even _could_ be done...

* * *

.


	3. Somebody Once Told Me -

**The Hell-er-Nator: Book I****II**** –**

**Tin Man's Alley**

* * *

**Part I: In Durance Vile.**

* * *

"_I am not a citizen of Texas, and those other, forty-nine lesser states."_– 213 Things Skippy is no longer allowed to do in the United States Army

* * *

**Chapter Fifty-six: Somebody Once Told Me the World is Gonna Roll Me**

_Monday, November 3, 1997: Sunnydale Parts and Salvage, Sunnydale, Early Morning __5__:__00__am –_

"Wow. I like her," Chessie said, her ears pricked all the way forward, the better to listen to Chief Warrant Officer Michaela Reeve's no-crap read off of the two civilian patrol officers. The others nodded.

"See? I _told_ you guys there was a Tech-comm Command," 'Kat said, her eyes wide and her pupils all the way dilated in the darkness of their hide.

Devila nodded, and grinned, showing all her teeth. "So you did. What should we do, First Scout?"

"Well... crud," 'Kat said, thinking furiously. "She says Tech-Sergeant Hicks-Harris is badly wounded and gone hospital, right?"

There were nods. Pooka piped up, "Wounded _bad_, First Scout, ma'am. But I fixed 'im good." She paused for a moment, and added, "Good as I could, anyway."

"Good girl, Pook," 'Kat said, grinning. "And you fixed the other 'un too. Hrmm. Lemme think?"

So... just where the heck did a Chief Warrant Officer fit into Command? Was that higher up than a Private Admiral, or a First Sergeant? Waugh. It was _definitely_ higher up than a First Scout of the Irregulars, that's for sure. And, she was an _adult_, too, and one who made other, even _dangerous_ adults snap to and back off. Heh.

Ok, so she was definitely high enough up. And heya, she even _stated_ flat out that she was in charge on the ground until she was relieved by Command, and _nobody_ contra- contra, uh, disagreed with her.

Sigh. 'Kat vaguely remembered that once, she'd been just a bit smarter, and had had a larger vocabulary. Kind of like the vague memory dreams she had asleep of something that might have been another life...

All gone now.

She was 'Kat, and that was all there was to it. And she was First Scout of the First Sunnydale Irregulars, Tech-Comm, North American Resistance Command, and _that_ was something. Something _important_.

Tech-Sergeant Xander Hicks-Harris had said so. First Sergeant Benjy had said so.

Still... this called for a smarter head, and someone higher up the chain of command. Because they now had Tech-Sergeant Xander Hicks-Harris down, and his apparent mate in enemy hands – the Chief Warrant Officer said so, and things were a bit over First Scout Kitty Kat's pay grade now.

Case in point. She should have had Pook follow the Bad Doctor, and Xander's Mate Lady Cordelia to see where they took her, but she hadn't thought of it 'til later. Darn it. And no help for it now.

Oh well. 'Kat did know one thing, way down deep in her blood and bones by now.

The Irregulars did not leave their people behind. Not ever.

"Ok. We need an officer," 'Kat said, finally. "We need Lady Aura."

"We need First Sergeant Benjy," Private Scout Devila said, watching the whirling machine go up with the Chief in it.

"First Sergeant Benjy isn't an officer," Pooka Bell pointed out, scornfully.

"Lady Aura isn't either," Chessie said.

"Closest we gots," 'Kat said. Hrmm. But that was an idea... they had someone else who _was_, and in command, too. "Good idea, though, Private Devi. Pook – go and get us a Lady Aura, and have her go hospital, m'kay? And then get us a Benjy, and a Colonel Benjy, huh?"

"Ma'am, yes ma'am, First Scout ma'am!" Pooka said, snapping off a salute. "Now?"

'Kat nodded. "Go."

Pooka Bell went, low to the ground to hide her glow.

"What about us?" Devila said.

"Heh." 'Kat grinned at the other two. "We're gone hospital, too. Let's go." She paused, thinking for a moment, and added, "'Cept for you, Devila. You go report home. _Then_ go hospital."

Devila nodded, grinned again, and vanished.

Private First Scout Kitty Kat and Private Scout Chessie of the First Sunnydale Irregulars turned, after one last look toward the people at the front of the salvage place, and then vanished into the surrounding darkness. They would have to skirt around and avoid the dangerous ones, the ones left from the group that had helped the Bad Doctor take the Lady Cordelia away, but hey –

– _They_ were the Scout Corps of the First Sunnydale Irregulars. Not a problem.

Like Private Dawn had said to Mom: there just flat _were_ no better scouts. Not in Sunnydale, and not anywhere.

* * *

_Monday, November 3, 1997: Sunnydale Parts and Salvage, Sunnydale, Early Morning __5__:__0__5am –_

Sighing, Giles rubbed at his eyes tiredly, and then turned to Detective, no, Chief Stein, and said, "Well, I do thank you for your efforts, at least, Chief Stein."

"Paul," Stein said. "And don't thank me yet. Seems to me that we have a decidedly mixed outcome here so far."

"Well, at least both of them aren't in the hands of that... " Jenny Calendar looked as if she was having serious problems finding an epithet foul enough.

"Woman?" Stein suggested.

"Please. Don't insult my entire gender, Paul," Jenny said, smiling. "I'd say _bitch_, but that would be an insult to perfectly wonderful female dogs all over the world."

"Heh. You will never ever know just how badly I wanted to see CWO Michaela spread Call-me-Maggie's brains all over that rubble pile," Stein said.

Giles snorted. "Oh, believe me, I fear I can quite imagine," he said. "Speaking of, Chief Warrant Officer Reeves seems to be a very, um, interesting young woman."

Jenny snickered and raised her eyebrows. "What was it that Sam was saying about your gift for understatement, Rupert?"

"Hah. Yes, quite."

The three of them wandered idly toward where Giles and Jenny had parked the classic black convertible at the northwest end of the front lot, out of the way of the Ranger, the CBI Investigator, a couple of just arriving CHP investigators and uniforms, and a small handful of deputies and SPD people. All four of those... not all Stein had left, but definitely all he could spare.

All of whom were, quite frankly, walking around the blown up office trailer with the CHP forensics team doing make work and enjoying the feel of the thumbs up their butts right now, as Stein had put it. Primarily because the uniformed DIA crew that was going over the rest of the grounds had grabbed jurisdiction on the ground and technically out ranked all of the California cops.

"That she is," Stein said. "Don't know if I mentioned it, but my first meeting with her was over the phone right after she had apparently had an altercation with our Terminator that very nearly left Mrs. Summers dead, and _did_ leave Reeves' associate deceased along with two detonated vehicles."

"No. Well, yes, however Joyce didn't precisely have time to go into great details on that," Giles said, shaking his head. "As you recall, things were a bit... "

"Tumultuous when you guys first arrived," Jenny said.

"Ah. Right. Sorry, been such a long night it's starting to blur together in places," Stein said. "Well, anyway, when I first got onto the scene, Michaela was standing between Mrs. Summers along with a couple of reporters of my acquaintance – Perry and Kolchak, whom you just met – and a couple of SPD uniforms, and a nice little clusterfuck, pardon my fucking French, of County Deputies and CHP officers, refusing to be disarmed, and visibly _daring_ anyone to try and get past her."

"Hah! Somehow, I'm having no difficulties imagining this," Giles said, laughing.

"Yeah. Gee, I can't imagine why that is," Stein said, dryly. "Anyway, once I arrived, introduced myself, and managed to get things defused a bit, she and I hit it off, apparently. Up until the point where the Apache helo landed in the middle of the intersection on Revello and took her away."

"Oh my," Jenny said, laughing.

"Ah, speaking of, what exactly has been going on, Paul?" Giles said. "Judging by Miss Reeves comments to the CBI Inspector, it seems to have been a great deal more eventful than we were aware of."

Sighing, Stein rubbed the back of his neck, tiredly. "Gotta warn you, you're not going to like a lot of this."

"Gee, Paul. We haven't been liking very much of any of this since Halloween night began," Jenny said. "Hit us."

"Yes, quite," Giles said. "It has been enough to make me wish that I had strangled my old acquaintance Ethan back during one of our past disagreements."

Nodding, Stein said, "And that's another thing for the list for our long talk. I'm taking it that this might be Ethan Rayne, of Ethan's Costume Emporium? Whom we found deceased the day after in his shop?"

"Ah, um, well, yes," Giles said. "Sorry, I had forgotten that you had not been apprised of that."

"No. I'm afraid that you and Cordelia were rather close mouthed about that part during your conversation at our interview suite," Stein said. "And it somehow never came up afterward. Oh, by the way. Nice trick with the water writing. Took me a bit to figure that one out."

"Oh. Ah... " Giles reddened a bit. "My apologies, however, we weren't even remotely certain of you at that point. And I can't help but believe that Cordelia was already mistrustful of Dr. Walsh, even then. She is, I'm starting to realize, a great deal more perceptive than I had been giving her credit for, previously."

"Yeah, that vapid fashion maven thing fools a lot of people," Stein said. "Sometimes even Cordelia, I think, and it's _her_ personae."

"She's convincing at it," Jenny said, smiling. "I think you're right: she convinces herself more often than not."

"Regardless... " Giles began.

"Ah." Stein waved it off, tiredly. "Believe me. I understand that the Sunnydale Police Department hasn't given _any_ of you any reason to be anything except wary of us up until now."

"Ah... Quite."

"I plan to attempt to fix that, as much as possible," Stein said. "No promises, mind you. A lot depends on just what I'm _allowed_ to do by the Mayor's office and City Council regarding hiring, training, and policy revision. I have seriously broad emergency powers at the moment, under the city and county charters, but those will go away once the current crisis does."

Jenny nodded. "Understood. And, you were saying?"

"Ah, yeah. Well, apparently, our perp – your Terminator – showed up at the Harris residence while Michaela's people had it under surveillance. And entered and killed Mr. and Mr. Harris before the trooper outside even had a chance to do anything."

"Oh, no... " Jenny said.

"Yeah. Looking for information, apparently. Then he proceeded to the Summers residence, whereupon Michaela and her partner engaged him, preventing him from gaining entry and causing the death of the first trooper. Then he proceeded north-northeast to the property of Rory Harris, up above Ojai and Wheeler Springs, and proceeded to engage the rest of Michaela's crew, along with a number of Walsh's people – going by reports – and killing everyone except for three of them. The survivors including Michaela, and Rory Harris."

"Oh, goddess," Jenny said. "This really is a nightmare."

"It gets worse," Stein said, leaning against Angel's convertible with his arms folded. "Apparently, Cordelia, Harris, and one of Michaela's people escaped during the firefight, and proceeded to head across country to the highway, and then down 23 at speed in a hot Land Rover, with the Terminator and about half the Sunnydale Sheriff's Department, to hear them tell it, and a number of CHP cars in hot pursuit. Engaging all and sundry in a running firefight with three heavy rifles, up until the final County car lost them. Leaving a number of Deputies and CHP officers, err, hors de combat or deceased."

"Oh, dear," Giles said. "So it is unlikely that Xander and Cordelia's legal difficulties are going to be easily resolved, then."

"Masterfully understated," Stein said, smiling mirthlessly at him. "Then, they popped up on UCS Drive, which is where I exited your home stage left, and proceeded to get into a knock down drag out gunfight with the Terminator, in full view of a number of students who believed it was a movie shoot. Shot the damned thing up pretty good with everything up to and including heavy small arms. I understand that that .505 Gibbs packs a serious punch."

"Ah. It does," Giles said, nodding. "It's one of the upper end of cartridges that even British Professional Hunters occasionally consider a bit too heavy for regular use."

"I'll have to remember to ask you how you know that, Dr. Giles," Stein said, "Considering that you exhibited an ability to handle that big rifle like a pro hunter yourself during our last little discussion with Walsh's people."

"I, ah... " Giles shrugged. "I've, ah, had occasion to use an express rifle one or twice. And it's Rupert, Paul."

"In serious social intercourse, no doubt," Stein said, his voice dry. "Also apparently, _Cordelia_ exhibited an ability to handle that .416 like an expert professional, as well, which is a talent I hadn't realized she'd possessed. After the Battle of UCS Drive, they proceeded onward with the Terminator following, until they dumped it in a swimming pool and headed to the Salvage Yards, at which point you and Jenny enter the picture again, along with a cast of dozens."

"Uh huh," Jenny said, nodding. "You do realize how this is going to sound to a judge and jury, right?"

"Completely fucking insane? Why yes, I am aware," Stein said, nodding. "Which, I'm pretty sure, our Mad Doctor is counting on so that she never ever needs to let Cordelia out of her clutches."

"Oh, dear... " Giles began polishing his glasses again, scowling.

"Yeah." Stein watched as a small group of Walsh's uniformed 'DIA agents' came out with a big forklift carrying a bright metallic cube and began loading it onto the six by six.

"Damn it," Jenny said, shaking her head. "Can anything be done?"

Stein shrugged. "I'm hoping that Michaela can do something, since she seems to adamantly have taken an interest in the two of them. And I'm hoping that Cordelia's grandfather can do something, along with his battery of attorneys."

"Ah, Cordelia's grandfather?" Jenny said, her eyebrows going up.

"Oh? William Randolph Chase the Second? You didn't know that, I take it," Stein said.

"Ah, no," Giles said, staring at him. "You mean to say that Cordelia Chase's grandfather is one of the ten wealthiest men in California?"

"Once, one of the ten wealthiest in the Western half of the U.S.," Stein said, "Until the IRS, and the Feds broke up his land baron empire. He once owned _all_ of the land that is now Lake Cachuma, the San Rafael Wilderness Area, and about half of the Santa Ynez Valley. And a couple of movie studios in L.A., as well. _Still_ owns a good sized chunk of Santa Barbara and Los Angeles. And William Randolph the _First_ more or less _built_ the Santa Ynez valley and Sunnydale County."

"Yikes!" Jenny said. "Then why... "

"Is Cordelia going to public school and living in Sunnydale?"

"Yes, instead of expensive private schools and an estate in Beverly Hills?" Jenny said, nodding.

Stein smiled thinly, returning the nod. "Because _h__er_ dad, Randall Chase, determined to make his own fortune after a massive fight with old William Randolph, and moved here with his then wife, Cordelia's mother. And decided to make sure his little princess was a bit more in touch with the common life than _he_ was raised to be."

"Ah." Giles said, nodding.

"Yeah. Bitterly estranged – I understand that old William Randolph effectively disowned Randall when he joined the Marine Corps," Stein said. "I'm not sure if they ever reconciled."

"Heh. Mr. Chase apparently failed on the common touch thing," Jenny said, "Considering Cordelia's determination to cement herself as ruler of the school's elite."

"Blame Cordelia's step mother the Professional Stage Mom," Stein said. "And, I wouldn't be so sure. Cordelia is a mass of contradictions."

"I am beginning to realize this, yes," Giles said. "She's displayed a number of hidden depths during the three days of this crisis."

"She's always been a very determined, opinionated, and stubborn girl who doesn't suffer fools gladly," Stein said. "Those traits tend to come out when it hits the fan, and then submerge again into Princess Clothes Horse after."

"Hah. And you really are an old friend of the family, aren't you?" Jenny said.

"Could say that," Stein said. "I was a marine with Randall Chase and Tony Harris, way back in the day. And then I moved here after I left the CHP."

"Oh!" Giles removed his glasses again, sighing. "So you've lost several old friends this weekend. I really am dreadfully sorry."

"Yeah, well," Stein said, shrugging and looking away. Hearing Jenny stifle another yawn, he turned back. "You two really should be moving along and getting some sleep. Where's your, uh, unusual guests?"

"Right here," a small voice said from the back bumper of the convertible.

"Yipe!" Jenny said, jumping slightly.

A small, red skinned figure grinned a lot of sharp teeth at her. Stein turned, shaking his head and smiling. "This is going to take a bit of getting used to."

"Quite," Giles said. "Ah, Devila is it? Where are the, um, rest of you?"

"I'm all of me there is, duh," Devila said. "The others have gone hospital. Pook is gone for Aura and Benjy. I'm reporting. Laters."

She vanished. "Yipe!" Jenny said, again.

"Most disconcerting," Giles said.

"Gone hospital?" Stein said, frowning. "What do you think she meant?"

"I'm not certain... perhaps Joyce or one of the others will know," Giles said, shrugging. "They were certainly most helpful in locating Xander, Cordelia, and Sergeant Cheng, and ah, Pooka in healing Xander and Cheng and stabilizing them."

"Huh." Stein said. "Wonder how long she was there? And if she was listening in?"

"No telling. Well, Dawn did say that they were possibly the best scouts anywhere," Jenny said, stifling another yawn. "I'm starting to believe it."

"Me too," Stein said, nodding. "Gonna have to look into steps to keep CPS and Social Services off of Joyce Summers' back."

"Well, at least you're not freaking out and _calling_ Child Protection," Jenny said.

"Oh, please. That wouldn't be beneficial to _anyone_ involved, especially not CPS and the Social Workers," Stein said, grinning. "Can you just see them trying to find a space on their forms for Pooka and 'Kat?"

"Hah! No, I'm afraid not," Giles said.

Jenny shook her head. "Well, on short acquaintance, they're all of them entertaining, extremely loyal, freaking adorable, and sometimes absolutely terrifying. Including Dawn, sometimes, which I'm pretty sure is driving Joyce Summers to distraction. All of Benjy's little Irregulars are, I'm told, but _especially_ the Scouts."

"Not doubting it a bit," Stein said. "Benjy is a bit disconcerting, herself."

Jenny yawned again, and Giles smiled and put his arm around her. "Well, we should be off, then," he said.

"Uh huh," Stein said. "Be careful driving that truck, Jenny. I'm given to understand that it's not your daddy's standard Land Rover. CHP says it's like chasing a rocket sled on wheels."

* * *

_Monday, November 3, 1997: Carswell Street, Breckenridge Home, Sunnydale, Early Morning 5:__1__5am –_

Tap tap tap... tap tap tap...

"Umm... go away... said there's no school today, m'kay?"

Aura Breckenridge rolled over and pulled a pillow over her head, burying herself between the other two.

Tap tap tap... tap tap tap... _Tap_ tap tap... tap tap _tap_... Tap tap _tap_... tap tap _tap_...

"Aw... crap, whattaya freaking want and it better be freaking good," Aura said. Sitting up and yawning, she stretched and finally opened her eyes. "Jeezus Crud, it's barely daylight yet for crying out loud."

Tap tap tap... tap tap tap...

Wait, that wasn't at her door, that was at her...

Startled, Aura turned to look at the French doors leading out onto her balcony. "Oh, freaking crap." Throwing off the covers, she headed for the doors, opening one of them a crack. "Pooka? What do you want?"

Pooka Bell zipped in through the gap, hovering about four feet in front of her at head level. "Lady Aura!" she said, popping a salute. "Come quick, come on!"

"Hey, huh what?" Aura shook her head and yawned again, rubbing at her eyes. "Wait a minnit."

She went back and sat on the edge of her bed, stretching and yawning again. "Jeeze. It's barely five AM. What is it, Pook?"

"Gotta go hospital, now!" Pooka said, droning around her in looping circles. "Come quick! Irregulars need you!"

"Pooka! Stop that," Aura said, shaking her head. She pointed at her clock radio and said, "Stop. Sit! Right there, Pook. I am _not_ a candle, and _you_ are not gonna buzz me like a bright green moth, y'hear? Sit."

Obediently, but not without rolling her eyes, Pooka Bell flew over and sat down on the edge of Aura's clock radio alarm. "You gotta go hospital, Aura! Private 'Kat wants you."

"Huh? 'Kat? Kitty Kat? What, is she _hurt_, or, uh, who... " Aura said, blinking at her diminutive guest.

"Private First Scout Kitty Kat requests your presence at hospital, duh," Pooka Bell said, carefully and distinctly. "She is not hurt. Tech-sergeant Xander is hurt. Bad. Lady Cordelia is captured by the bad guys. 'Kat wants an _officer_, so _you_ go _now!_"

Pooka zipped of the radio again, and grabbed a lock of Aura's hair and started pulling. "Go now! Hospital!"

"Ow! Stop that," Aura said. "I'm going – I'm going, jeeze. Wait, _Xander_ is hurt? And Cordelia? Why didn't you say so?"

"Did. Duh."

Aura jumped off the bed again and headed for her walk in closet. Ok, jeeze. Xander? Cordelia captured? Fuck. What to wear... what to wear... choosing an armful of blouses and jeans, she returned to the bed to find Pooka buzzing irritably at the French Doors.

"Out!" Pooka demanded, imperiously. "Gotta go."

"All right, hang on," Aura said, shaking her head. Crossing to the doors, she said, "Where you going now?"

"Get Benjy. Get _Colonel_ Benjy," Pooka said, and shot out the doors and off into the distance as soon as they opened.

"Yikes, she's fast when she wants to be," Aura said, staring after her. "Benjy? And Colonel Benjy, uh... Benjy's _dad?_ The hell?"

Jesus Christ. If they were sending for not only the First Sergeant, but Lieutenant Colonel _Michael_ Sheridan, retired, then this must be a full freaking Irregulars emergency. Oh. Well... _duh_. Gee, Aura. Xander is badly hurt, and Cordelia's captured by bad guys, weren't you listening?

Well, fuck. Time to get dressed and go then.

"Hey!" Aura stopped, halfway back to the bed. "When the hell did _I_ become an Irregulars freaking _officer_?"

* * *

_Monday, November 3, 1997: __#4616, Apt. B on Windsor St.__, Sunnydale, Early Morning 5:__1__5am –_

"Ok, now I'm really starting to get worried," Joyce said, checking her watch and the clock over Giles' mantle for about the fifteenth time.

"Mom, relax," Dawn said, doing her level best not to roll her eyes. Judging by the glare that drew, her best wasn't all that great, huh? "The First Scouts know what they're doing, honest."

"Don't 'relax' _me_, Dawn Marie Summers," Joyce said. "Little girls shouldn't know what they're doing in situations like this. I don't care if they _do_ have fur, teeth, and uh, claws... " Sighing, she sat down on the arm of the sofa. "And, boy, that really didn't make much sense, did it?"

"Mrs. Summers? Honestly," Wicked said. "They're all right. If they weren't Pooka would have come back to report and ask for backup and help."

"That's not helping, Ephasia," Joyce said, smiling a bit wanly at her. "What if something happened to Pooka as well?"

"Illogical, Mrs. Summers," Saavik said, ignoring or oblivious to Dawn frantically shaking her head 'No!' at her. "The odds against Scout Pooka Bell encountering something first capable of catching her and then harming her are... " she finally registered the head shake and Dawn's expression and trailed off, "At a decimal percentage that you probably would not find reassuring, I'm afraid."

"Mrs. Summers?" Willow said, a bit hesitantly.

"Et tu, Willow?" Joyce said. "And I've told you: call me Joyce. You're certainly old enough by now."

"Ah, uh, yes Joyce," Willow said. "It's probably a good thing that they're independent and good at what they do, uh, don't you think? Considering what they had to deal with on Halloween night, and... " she glanced sidelong at Dawn.

"And if they weren't, I wouldn't have my daughter back here with me now?" Joyce said, frowning at her.

"Uh, eep?" Willow shrank back.

"That's all well and good, Willow, and I understand and appreciate that, believe me," Joyce said. "Just... these are real bad guys, adults, with real guns, not... a bunch of transformed kids like you all were."

"And Spike was a real adult monster, Mom," Dawn said. "And those pirates had real guns. _W__e_ sent them packing. And those transformed kids were trying to kill or capture us, and they were serious about it."

Her mom looked at her, frowning, and Dawn knew she wasn't getting through. Gee, it was like Benjy said, explaining one of her plans: below the age of fifteen, maybe eighteen, adults didn't see _people_. They didn't really see you. They saw something helpless and incompetent and unnoticeable unless you were being annoying or doing something stupid. Except for maybe Benjy's parents.

"Mrs. Summers?" Stephanie said, apparently deciding to throw her shield in the ring. " – !"

"Yipe!" Willow said, jumping a bit on the couch.

"Devila!" Dawn said, looking over at the young devil girl now standing at the end of the couch. "Report, Scout."

"Am here for that, duh," Devila said, giving her a lazily amused look from a pair of red gold eyes. "Private Dawn, ma'am. First Scout 'Kat reports: Tech-sergeant Xander captured, wounded, and at hospital, under guard. Lady Cordelia captured and in hands of bad guys. Scouts gone hospital, Pooka gone for Lady Aura and First Sergeant Benjy and Colonel Benjy."

"Wait, what?" Joyce stared at her, blinking.

Devila shrugged. "As said. And don't worry, Mom. Tech-comm Commander on scene. Everything A-ok now."

"Wait, what?" Dawn said, feeling like her mom now: staring at Private Devila and blinking stupidly in shock. "A Tech-comm _Commander?_ But- but... "

Devila nodded enthusiastically, and said, "Tech-comm Commander Chief Warrant Officer Michaela Reeves, Black Company. And, boy, shoulda _seen_ her, Private Dawn. Stood down entire bad guys and everyone. And told 'em _off_, too!"

That grin was infectious, and _way_ too full of teeth. And _that_ just didn't _compute_. There _was_ no Tech-comm. _Xander_ stole it from a _movie_ and made it up. And- and, crap. They were under standing orders _not_ to say that around these six. No one really wanted to crush 'Kat's morale... Dawn and Stephanie exchanged helpless looks, shrugging.

Ah well, at least Cap knew the score and had adjusted.

Oops. No one gave _Willow_ any standing orders... "But... but... but... There's no such thing as Tech-comm! No Resistance Command! She- she, she _can't_ be!"

Devila looked at her and made that sneezing sound that 'Kat used for a combination laugh and 'bullshit!', her tail coiling and uncoiling lazily. "What you think, civilian."

Dawn wanted to say something, but she was too busy strangling laughter at the sight of the expression on Willow's face, gods.

"Don't you- you 'civilian' me, you, you... little demon you," Willow said, folding her arms over her chest and glaring. "Hrmph!"

"There weren't any Terminators either," Stephanie said, reasonably. "Or superheroes. And now there are."

"Ah, oh." Willow said, deflating. "_Oh!_ Right."

"What about the Terminator, Devi?" Dawn said, both honestly curious about that and desperately trying to forestall what she knew came next, and the explosion after. Jeeze. How did _Benjy_ do this and make it look effortless?

"Terminator terminated," Devila said, grinning and practically bouncing on her toes. "Lady Cordelia killed it. Heard say."

"Really? You're _kidding_ me!" Willow said, her eyes going wide.

"No kid," Devila said, shooting Willow a scornful look. She had apparently determined that Private Devila wasn't impressed with Willow much, and that was that. "Heard Chief Stein say, heard Commander say, heard Colonel Commander say. Done deal. Lady Cordelia killed it."

"Wow," Dawn said. Cordelia? Bitchy, fashion obsessed, mean girl _Cordelia?_ What'd she do, snark it to death?

"Astounding," Mr. Zabuto said, and Dawn suddenly realized that while he'd been watching and listening to everything with great interest, he'd been quietly staying out of it until now. Lucky him. Smart, too.

"Wait, did you say Michaela _Reeves?_" Joyce said. "Chief _Warrant Officer_ Michaela Reeves?" Devila nodded enthusiastically.

"Why, you know her, mom?" Dawn said.

"She... she was the woman who saved me from that... that _thing_," her mom said, nodding uncertainly. "And stood down that mob of police officers after that wanted to swarm over shouting questions at me, until Chief Stein got there." Joyce looked at Devila sharply, and said, "Asian looking young woman a couple of inches shorter than me, with a big rifle and a dark brown jacket?"

"Yes ma'am," Devila said. "Took big rifle, nearly kill Evil Scientist Doctor and man who hit Lady Cordelia. Police Stein and Tech-comm Colonel had to hold her down." Devi and the other scouts had a tendency to drop words when they were excited...

"Ah. Yes... that would be her," Joyce said, nodding slowly. "Someone _hit_ Cordelia?"

"Yup." Devila's eyes narrowed. "Not do _twice_."

"I'll bet... "

"Ho-kay now. Report done," Devila said, starting to grin again.

"Ap! What are you doing, Private?" Dawn said.

"Orders. Gone hospital now, rejoin Scouts," Devila said, twitching her tail lazily.

"No!" Joyce said, standing. She put her hands on her hips, and looked down. "Devila you are _not_ going anywhere else tonight. Uh... this morning. Whatever. Do you understand me?"

Devila's ears flattened against her head. "Understand. Have orders."

"Dev?" Dawn said. "You say First Sergeant Benjy and the Lieutenant Colonel are on their way?"

Devila nodded, looking solemn and a little bit nervous of Joyce. And resolute, which meant that the nervousness meant that she knew she was about to piss mom off something fierce.

Sigh. "All right, _go_."

"Dawn! Devila, don't you – "

Too late. Devila gone. Darn, but teleporting was a handy talent. Dawn wished that she could do it right about now. Gulp. "Mom! Don't. Mom, we know what we're doing," Dawn said, carefully. Taking a deep breath and ignoring the Mom Glare of Death, she added, "And in this? You don't."

Yikes. Did that actually come out of her mouth? Oh, she was _so_ very dead. And grounded for _months_. Ah well, what were noncoms for, if not for diverting the fire from the Brass?

Stephanie proved she could draw fire too by standing and picking up her shield. "They're going to need a good noncom to keep them in line."

"Good idea," Dawn said, nodding. "Go. Uh, want a ride?"

"Hey," Stephanie said, grinning. "Not that far a run from here. Only one major hospital they could go to, right?"

"Right." Their eyes locked, and they nodded to each other. Both were aware that mom was saying something, lots of somethings, and Willow too, kinda in the background. Didn't matter.

Irregulars business.

"_Willow._" Dawn's voice cut across and drew Willow's attention like a magnet. "You, Jesse, and Aura said that Cordelia and Xander are together now?"

Willow blinked at her, nodding a bit vaguely, and then more firmly, looking like it was being dragged out of her. "Well, yeah. Not that that can be. Well, except maybe it is. Even if it _is_ against all the laws of God and Man and – "

Right then. Time to let go of that little crush forever, then. Sigh. Boy this growing up fast stuff _sucks._ Suck it up, Willow. Time for you to do so, too. And that made Cordelia Irregulars business, also. 'Cause we take care of our own, and we _don't_ leave people behind...

"Ma'am," Stephanie was saying, "Like Dawn said. We really do know what we're doing. And we have _adults_ on the way who know what _they're_ doing."

"That... _man_," Joyce said, shaking her head. "Stephanie... "

"Ma'am?" Stephanie Rogers slipped her arm into the loops of her shield. "I think you'd better call me Cap now. I think it's time for me to put on my other hat."

"What about us?" Wicked said, looking curiously between her and Dawn and Mom.

"Stay," Dawn said, thinking furiously. "Benjy wants us, she'll send Pook."

"You and Saavik and Dawn are _not_ going anywhere, young lady," Joyce said. Dawn carefully hit a grin. That one statement was adult speak indicating that whether she knew it or not consciously, Mom had already accepted that she'd lost the battle with Cap and Devila...

No telling where this might have gone, had Giles and Ms. Calendar not came in right about then.

By the time Mom got through explaining, arguing with, and remonstrating with Giles, Jenny, and Mr. Zabuto, Cap had slipped out the door and was nowhere to be seen.

* * *

_Monday, November 3, 1997: __3743 Midland Court__, Sheridan home, Sunnydale; Morning 5:__30__am –_

Tap tap tap... tap tap tap... Tap tap tap... tap tap tap... Tap tap tap... tap tap tap...

Beverly Sheridan's eyes snapped open, and she half sat up, leaning on her elbows and glancing around wildly. "Ah'm up, up.. what's the problem... huh?"

Tap tap tap... tap tap tap...

Aw, crap. The tapping was coming from the _window_. Sheesh. And it was... Bev peered across the room at her alarm clock. Double sheesh.

Throwing the covers aside, Beverly yawned, stretched, and sat up fully. Oh well, at least whatever it was had woken her up from a nightmarish dream about being trapped down in the tunnels under Castle Badon, surrounded by dead Irregulars, with that... _thing_ slowly moving up on the rest of them. And her.

Yeesh.

Climbing down from the top bunk, Bev ignored Misty groaning and pulling a pillow over her head in the bottom one. She padded over to the window and looked out cautiously. Jeeze, sunrise. And...

"Pook?" Bev shook her head, and opened the window, stepping back as her pixie zipped in.

"First Sergeant Major General ma'am!" Pooka said, snapping to attention and saluting. "Gotta come quick! 'Kat said come hospital now. Come on come on... "

"Whoa!" Beverly said, holding her hands up. "At ease, Private. And _slow_ down. Stop."

Yikes. _Something_ had Pooka Bell seriously wound up. Bev couldn't ever remember seeing the diminutive faerie this agitated. Not even when she'd been freaking out over that _thing_ in the tunnels...

"Huh? Bev, whassup? Issat... "

"Yup, it's Pooka, and something major is wrong, Misty," Beverly said.

"Gotta come hospital, First Sergeant. _Now_," Pooka said. "_'Kat_ said."

"Slow down, Pooka. _Report_, Private," Beverly said.

Heh. That got the job done. Pooka Bell calmed almost immediately and became business like. She began to more or less precisely explain what was going on, at least as seen and heard through the eyes of an eight inch tall pixie who had started out as an eight year old girl...

"Holy crap." Misty had gotten out of bed by now, and joined Beverly by the window. About part way through the report, she'd snapped as fully awake as Bev, and now she looked at Beverly wide eyed. "Holy crap," she said, again.

"Ah... yeah. 'Bout sums it up, huh?" Beverly nodded. "Bide a moment, Pook. I need to think."

"Think fast, Sergeant Benjy ma'am," Pooka said, flying over to land on Beverly's left shoulder.

"Am gonna, Pook," Bev said, nodding.

And, ok... not really all that much to think about, huh? So much for becoming – and staying – plain old Beverly Sheridan again and from now on.

Oh well. Was a nice daydream, but this is reality. And _reality_ was, Beverly _Sheridan_ commanded a rag tag troop of kids who'd been changed by some kinda black magic spell, and who had then been scared, beaten, scarred, and forged into something other, something not quite kids any more by a night spent fighting their way desperately across lower Sunnydale.

And some of 'em weren't ever gonna be kids any more, and a few of them were never, _ever_ gonna change back. Case in point...

Sighing, Beverly Sheridan shook her head and put Beverly Sheridan away forever, and locked her down.

First Sergeant Benjy of the First Sunnydale Irregulars, Tech-comm, North American Resistance Command, looked out of a pair of cold, clear gray eyes and said, "Pook. Go rejoin the Scouts. Tell 'Kat and Aura we're on our way as soon as we can. Got some stuff to do first, though, so it may be a bit. _Go!_"

"Ma'am, yes ma'am!" Pooka hesitated a moment, and said, "Want me to get Cap and the rest?"

"No. Not yet," Benjy said. "Wanna find out what's up first, then make plans. Go."

Pook went, a bright green glowing blur out through the upstairs window and into the dim Sunnydale dawn.

"Orders, First Sergeant?" Misty said, smiling oddly at her. Bitch.

"Damn. And I kinda was looking forward to being plain old Beverly again," Benjy said, sighing.

"Not in the cards, Bev," Private Misty said. "Suggest you suck it up and deal, Sarge."

"Yup." Benjy nodded. "Go wake up my dad the Colonel, and give him the report, Private. I'm stuck with this, you are, too."

"Got it," Misty said. "And you?"

"I'm getting dressed and equipped."

As Misty ran out of the bedroom, still in pajamas, Benjy climbed back up and got her wrist rocket and her fanny pack off of the shelf behind the head of her bunk. And a brand new five hundred round bag of glass marbles.

Climbing down, she began rummaging around in her drawer for her uniform jumper.

And her hat.

* * *

_Monday, November 3, 1997: __South Marion Drive Sunnydale Medical Complex__, Sunnydale, Morning 5:__3__5am –_

"Umm. Crap," Chief Warrant Officer Michaela Reeves said. And, damn, but these chairs were _not_ comfortable.

At some point, she apparently had tried to curl up and doze in one, like a kid with a stuffed animal. Of course, _most_ kids didn't use a Griffin & Howe .416 Rigby as a plushie toy, but, wah. Most kids weren't Warrant Officers in the Outfit.

The bigger the kids, the better, cooler, and more expensive the toys.

Sighing and trying unsuccessfully to stifle a yawn, she looked up wryly at her Zoomie Colonel, who was standing there safely back a good distance holding a pair of steaming to go cups.

"But, I doan' _wanna_ go to school, dad," Michaela said, a small grin twitching at the corners of her lips.

"Hah. Not quite that old yet, young lady," Brockhurst said. "And I have to admit, I am surprised. Kind of expected you to boil up out of a snooze like a rabid wolverine."

"Not sleeping, just resting my eyes, dammit," Michaela said, reflexively. She sat up stiffly, shifting the express rifle to a spot beside her chair rather than across her lap and arm. "And I don't generally do that when it's someone I know waking me. The subconscious knows. Gimme... "

She took the large coffee cup from him greedily, draining a gulp despite the near burning hot of it.

"It's not even vending machine coffee, either," Brockhurst said, sipping at his. "Cafeteria sells to go. So does the fast food place here."

"Groovy."

Yawning, Michaela sat up straighter and looked around. Ho-kay. No one medical had come out, so apparently Cheng and Harris were still in the OR. Not that she'd expected much different: the docs would probably be picking bits of shrapnel out of them from here to doomsday. Plus the concussive damage, compound fractures, and whatever other assorted and associated injuries...

Goddamn Cheng was lucky to be alive. So was Harris.

Michaela would really _love_ to have gotten the rest of the story of that fight at the salvage yards from Chase before Walsh's goons grabbed her. Oh well. Fuck it, drive on.

Yup. ER was still loaded with civilian cops. And a couple of others... Brockhurst had pulled in a local favor, and had gotten a quartet of MP's from Halleck down here to add to the cluster fuck, just for shits and giggles. Four more on the way for shift changes later.

So, seeing as how neither SPD, Sunnydale County, nor CHP could decide on jurisdiction on Harris, they had a pair of each standing around glaring and sneering at each other, ready to take up guard duty and protective custody once the docs got done and wheeled the kid out to recovery. And four MP's convinced that their jurisdiction out ranked everyone else's, cause hey, Brockhurst and Reeves had _told_ 'em it did in no uncertain terms. Who were glaring and sneering at all of the civvie cops, who were glaring and sneering back. And a couple of Walsh's fake DIA playmates who were convinced _they_ had jurisdiction, and were glaring and sneering at everyone involved.

Fuck it. The Army cops had more firepower. They won the pissing contest on that basis alone. Even if the 'more firepower' was fucking M4 carbine pest rifles...

If Michaela had had a package of Black Cats, she'd be sorely tempted to light 'em and toss 'em into the middle of the ER waiting area just to see the balloon go up. Bound to be just purely _made_ of awesome.

One of the DIA guys and one of the CHP guys glanced over at Michaela and Brockhurst and sneered at them, too, just to let them feel included in the overall camaraderie. Michaela cordially sneered back, and sipped her coffee some more.

"Just feel the love around here," Brockhurst said, smiling. He sat down and moved the big .505 Gibbs over a bit to make room. Michaela had given him custody of it for the moment.

Have to get some more cartridges for these, at some point. Might come in handy.

"Kinda makes you feel all warm all over, doesn't it, sir?" Michaela said. "Kinda like peeing in the pool."

Brockhurst laughed, nodding. "Precisely. All right, so. I made contact with Vandenberg. They're sending a Warrant and an airman over to ferry the Comanche home and get the tanks topped off and the oil changed."

"And its fifty thousand mile tune up and spark plug change, yup," Michaela said. "They bringing it back?"

"Oh, hell yes, Chief Warrant Officer," Brockhurst said. "I signed it out and that bird is _mine_ for the duration."

"Good," Michaela said, nodding. "Might yet come in handy. I still wanna walk that GAU-12 across something breakable before we're done."

"Blood thirsty, aren't we?"

"Hell, I haven't gotten to blow anything up yet," Michaela said. "So far, Cheng, Chase, and Harris have, and even the freaking Major, but I haven't. Makes me cranky when I don't get my minimum daily allotment of high explosives in my diet."

"Ah, so that's the problem," Brockhurst said. "I suspect they put too much gunpowder in your raw meat wherever you guys are based."

"Heh. You could be right," Michaela said, grinning at him. "I did warn you about the food."

"That you did," Brockhurst said, nodding. "Huh. Hello, what's this?"

_This_ was a slim, five foot six or so, light complected, well and very expensively dressed young black girl of about sixteen, _maybe_ seventeen. Who was currently being blockaded from approaching the emergency room desk by the two DIA goons, who were being argued with by a pair of MPs, who were being supplemented by two of the SPD uniforms who were apparently just trying to find out who the girl was.

Yup. Clusterfuck city.

Michaela slung the express rifle over her left shoulder – ow, but you didn't leave loaded firearms lying around loose – and ambled up to see what was going on, drinking her coffee, with Brockhurst ambling along behind her.

"Stand down, Sergeant, Corporal," she said, nodding to the two MPs. "Now, what seems to be the problem here?"

"We're attempting to – " one of the uniformed DIA people began...

"Asked him, not you," Michaela said, cutting acrost him. "Carry on, Sergeant." The fake – Michaela was sure of that by now – DIA goon bristled, but subsided, looking angry. Fuck 'im.

"Ma'am," the MP Sergeant said, "This young lady comes barreling up to the ER duty nurse demanding to know about Harris and Chase, and these two mo-, um, gentlemen started trying to hustle her away from the counter and interrogate her." His partner nodded confirmation.

"And then we stepped in to try and make a bit of sense out of the situation," the female SPD officer said. Her name tag read: Kagan, and her black male partner's read: Douglas. Cool, and a couple of SPD that didn't seem like raging assholes or complete incompetents. Then again, _Kagan's_ immediate superior was a lone SPD Sergeant who had been told in no uncertain terms that Stein, and by extension, _SPD_ had joint ownership of Harris with Reeves...

It made Kagan and Douglas and Michaela's four MPs natural allies in a sea of hostile badges. The two SPD officers were slightly outnumbered and outgunned, otherwise.

"Appreciated," Michaela said, nodding. "Carry on, Sergeant. I've got this. Miss?" she said, turning to the young civilian, "May I ask whom you are, and what your interest is?"

The young girl, teen, looked at Michaela with sharp interest, and nodded. "As long as I get to reciprocate?"

"Well, sure, ma'am," Michaela said. "I'm Chief Warrant Officer Michaela Reeves, United States Army, and Colonel Stretch here is Lieutenant Colonel William Brockhurst, USAF. And I'm currently in command of this clus-, um, mess, for the duration."

DIA goon numbah one glared at her, still bristling. "You know, all due respect, Chief, but you seem to be trying throw an _awful_ lot of weight around for a slip of a girl with a big assault rifle. Ma'am."

Michaela grinned like a wolf at him, sizing him up, as Colonel Brockhurst said, mildly, "That's because she has it to throw, son."

Brockhurst was smiling slightly and holding the big .505 Gibbs dangling from his right hand by the pistol grip like a swagger stick. Ok, serious wrist strength there. That Griffin and Howe just had to weigh at least fifteen pounds with the scope, not counting the ammo load.

"It's a _battle_ rifle, kid. _Assault_ rifle is a _media_ term used by amateurs. AR-10s, FN-FAls, and M1As are battle rifles. M16s and HK-33s are _automatic_ rifles. Only the old Sturmgewehr 44 and 45(M) and the Pederson mod for the Springfield are _assault_ rifles." Michaela was peripherally aware of the girl examining both her and the tall, slightly older Colonel with increased interest. Glancing with mild disinterest at the DIA goon, she nodded to the girl. "I am in command of this Charlie Foxtrot. That would be _regardless_ of what the faux Defense Intelligence Agency pukes here have to say about it, ma'am."

"I beg your pardon, Chief," the DIA goon said, bristling worse. "But what in the world makes you assume that we're not real Defense Intelligence agents?"

Sighing, Michaela returned her attention to him. "Well... " she looked in vain at his uniform blouse for a name tag, "Mr... "

"Umbridge. Wa- Agent Umbridge," he said. He was reasonably tall, about twenty five, probably, and fairly husky with dark blonde hair and brown eyes.

"Wa- Agent?" Michaela grinned at him. "Warrant Officer Agent? Gee, that's a rank I've never heard before," she said. He flushed, and she added, "Well now, let me count the ways. For one, there's not a single one of you I've seen that's past his mid twenties, which would make you all rookie agents. For two, there's no grizzled looking and rumpled forty to fifty-ish senior agent overseeing your, ah, 'investigation' here and interfacing with people like me. For three, the Defense Intelligence Agency still issues the M11 aka SIG P228 in nine mike mike, not the M9 in forty Ess and Dubyah. Which means that your _ID_ may be authentic, but you and your buddies are as phony as a grackle imitating a rusty hinge. Now, until you actually get command of my person of interest, which is gonna happen right about when they start ice skating on the Utah Salt Flats, kindly back the fuck off before I _back_ you the fuck off with an X-bullet between the fucking eyes, son."

Practically growling down at her, Umbridge nodded stiffly and said, "We'll see about that. And, this isn't over between us."

"Any time, Toy Soldier," Michaela said. "Any place. Now, ma'am?"

She ignored the MPs having coughing fits and the two SPD officers and the CHPs grinning like maniacs, and turned _back_ to the girl once more. She also ignored the SPD and the CHP guys exchanging money, apparently collecting and paying off bets.

The girl was studying both of them intensely now. Michaela knew what she was seeing: a grimy looking five foot eight Japanese-Irish-Chinese woman in her mid twenties, with a rumpled, torn, bloody, and unorthodox looking uniform and flight jacket, carrying a big automatic rifle, and a bigger bolt action, with one arm that _should_ be in the sling hanging loosely around her neck. And a six foot plus late late thirties to early mid-forties wiry and graying dark blonde haired man in a nearly equally rumpled USAF flight suit with a huge bolt action dangling from one hand and a Light Colonel's insignia.

"As a grackle imitating a rusty hinge?" the girl said, finally, grinning and shaking her head.

"Sorry. My inner South Texican comes out when I'm both tired and on the prod, ma'am," Michaela said. "Male grackles make the damnedest noises when they're challenging others and displaying plumage in mating season."

"I see. I'll remember that," she said. "Well, my name is Aura Breckenridge. I'm a... old friend of Xander Harris, from like, when we were kids, and Cordelia _Chase_ is my _best_ friend. I wanna know what's going _on_ here."

"An a... old friend?" Michaela said, her eyebrows going up.

"Um... " Aura flushed slightly. "Since about kindergarten, but it's been a rough bunch of years. We've had our bumpy spots on that. And never mind that. Is Xander going to be ok? Is _Cordy_ ok? Where _is_ Cordy? Is that Larry Blaisdell freaking Terminator still after them?"

"Whoa, whoa, ma'am," Michaela said, holding her hands out palms up and gesturing for the girl to slow down, please. "Why don't you follow me and the Zoomie Colonel here to the cafeteria, cause I need more coffee and some food, and I'll answer what I can, all right? They won't tell you anything _here_ anyway, seeing as how you're not family."

"All right, lead on," the girl said, smiling at her. "Won't be the first early morning debriefing I've held in this cafeteria."

Michaela's eyebrows went up again on that, but she just turned to the MP quartet and said, "All yours, Sarge. Do not let _anyone_ in to Harris. And do call me immediately if _anything_ develops. _That_ is an _order_."

"Ma'am, yes ma'am, Chief Warrant Officer," Sergeant Gabriel said, nodding. "What level of, ah, deterrence are we authorized to use?"

"Well, let's see. If it's the estimable Dr. Walsh and any of her toy soldiers and fake DIA, just go ahead and shoot the bitch and anyone with her. Anyone else... minimum force required until I am apprised, all right?"

She heard Brockhurst choking back laughter on that one, and ignored him.

Michaela nodded crisply to the two SPD officers and said, as graciously as she could, "No jurisdictional offense intended to you guys or Chief Stein. But I _must_ speak with Harris before _anyone_ else does, and my standing orders read that I must maintain chain of access here in this situation."

Officer Kagan shook her head, smiling. "None taken, Chief," she said, her partner nodding agreement. "And not to say that you don't trust the SPD, but... you don't have any real reason to trust the SPD."

Brockhurst smiled genially, and said, "I'm certain that the good Chief Warrant here wouldn't have stated it _precisely_ like that, but since you did?" He shrugged.

"All right, come on, Miss Breckenridge," Michaela said. "Me starving."

"I could eat," Aura said. "Got woke up way too early today. Oh, hey. Is that true about," she motioned at Michaela's rifle, "The 'assault rifle' thing?"

"It is. Ain't no such animal as an 'assault rifle'," Michaela said, nodding. "If it fires multiple shots when you pull the trigger, then it is an automatic weapon. If your automatic weapon fires pistol cartridges, it is a sub-machinegun. Intermediate and small bore rifle cartridges, like the 5.56 -slash- .223 Remington or 7.62x39, then it is an _automatic rifle_. If it takes a full caliber rifle cartridge like the 7.62x51 and up – .308 Winchester to you civilians – it is a _battle rifle_. If it takes a full size cartridge or heavier, is capable of sustained automatic fire, and uses a bipod or a tripod, it is a _machinegun_. If it will only fire one shot per trigger pull, it is a semi-automatic rifle, I don't care how 'evil' and black plastic looking it is. If your semi-auto is very accurate and heavy barreled, it is a precision rifle, also euphemistically known as a sniper's rifle."

Aura nodded, looking to Colonel Brockhurst who nodded back. "I'm going to go out on a limb here and suggest that the Chief Warrant here knows her stuff and is a qualified weapons expert. Check a Jane's Infantry Small Arms if you don't believe her: nowhere in it will you find the term 'assault rifle' except in describing a very limited number of specific weapons. The British like precision in their technical language."

"Uh huh," Michaela said, nodding. "The media loves the term assault rifle and assault weapon because most of them hate firearms and like whipping up hysteria against them. Gun writers like it because it makes 'em sound knowledgeable, they think. Novelists and fiction writers like it because it sounds cool and bad ass. Average joes use it because, no offense, ma'am, but most of y'all get your info from media sources. Us folks who actually work with the things for a living find it a nifty way to separate the wanna bees from the actual professionals."

"Cool and gotcha. I will remember this. And, uh, 'Zoomie Colonel'?" Aura said, falling in alongside of them.

"Air Force puke, ma'am," Michaela said. "But this one is A-OK."

"I'm going to take that as high praise, coming from you, Chief Warrant Officer Leg Ape," Brockhurst said, "Mostly because I don't want you shooting me."

"Smart man, for a Fast Mover jockey." Michaela grinning up at him and said, "And they say Air Force isn't teachable. Pshaw."

* * *

.


	4. Nothing Ever Goes as Planned

**Chapter Fifty-seven: Nothing Ever Goes as Planned...**

* * *

_Monday, November 3, 1997: __South Marion Drive Sunnydale Medical Complex__, Sunnydale, Morning __6__:__0__5__am –_

"What a mess," Aura said, taking a sip of coffee and then biting into a cheese danish.

"About sums it up, yes," Michaela said.

"So... Cordy is in this mad doctor's hands, and she has a warrant and a bunch of goons, and a secret research compound? Under UCS _Sunnydale_? And you're one of the only survivors of a clandestine ops unit that fights things like Creed and the Terminator? And Cordy and Xander have so many charges against them, they're likely to get buried _under_ a federal penitentiary?" Aura shook her head, scowling. "Geeze. This is like a C-grade movie on Sci-fi channel."

"Heh. And in short: yes, yes, 'bout sums it up, and not if I can fucking help it, and yeah, it kinda does," Michaela said.

Brockhurst grinned, shaking his head. "When you put it like that, it sounds insane and ridiculous, huh?"

"So. And so it does. No offense, Chief, but, ah... why do you _care_ what happens to Cordy and Xan?" Aura said, looking at her intently.

"Good question. Lemme see if I have a good answer for you, hopefully one that makes better sense to you than it does me sometimes," Michaela said. She took another huge bite of her breakfast, aware of Brockhurst studying her and watching her curiously while he ate. Oh, right – she never had really had time or patience to explain to him, either. Which made him just awfully patient for a ranking officer in an unorthodox situation...

"All right," Michaela said, swallowing and nodding. "Because the Black Company doesn't make war on civilians. We _protect_ civilians from things that most people cannot _imagine_ really exist. Because, going by what was said that I was privy to via comm, what was implied, and what I know of the people I work with, and what went across the company freq before Major Buckley went offline, the _Major_ thought that it was important enough to disrupt a major op and throw tactics and planning into the shitter for. Because Master Sergeant Cheng, one of the most cold blooded and deadly sons of bitches I know, thought it was important enough to put his life on the line for. Because according to what I heard over Cheng's comm freq before I went down and completely offline, Cordelia Chase saw through brevet Captain Finn's bullshit and apparently gunned him down like a cold pro, and I like that in a girl. Because Lieutenant Barkley got herself dead making sure that Maggie Walsh didn't stop Allred from getting the Major's last message out. And because, as Barkley so carefully pointed out during the briefing I was listening in on over comm – Walsh really needs to upgrade her electronic security – we don't _like_ people like Maggie Walsh and her little black ops toy soldier project, and secret labs and bases pulling that black ops movie crap on American soil."

Michaela took another bite, chewed, and washed it down. "And because Chase, Harris, and Cheng, but mostly Chase at the end, from what I understand, managed to take down a bad guy that wiped out my entire unit, and way too many civilians in this town. That kind of balls to the wall determination, inventiveness, and sheer guts deserves my deepest respect. And it _doesn't_ deserve Doctor Director Call-me-Maggie fucking Walsh. And because we are the Black fucking _Company_, and we take care of our own, and all of that _makes_ them two of _ours_, whether they ever know it or not. Good enough?"

"You should quit suppressing your opinions, Chief Warrant Officer," Brockhurst said, "And tell us how you really feel."

"All due respect, Lieutenant Colonel, sir, sit on this," Michaela said, flipping him the bird. "It's a full bird for you."

"About time _someone_ recognized my obvious talents and quality and promoted me," Brockhurst said, laughing. "Even if it _was_ a low ranking Army Puke."

"Good enough, Chief Warrant Officer," Aura said, nodding. She grinned, and said, "And you guys are not what I expect from an officer and an, uh, enlisted?"

"Enlisted, kinda," Michaela said, nodding. "Warrant Officers are technically officers, but in reality, we're kind of in a no man's land between the highest ranks of NCO, and Commissioned Officers."

"Hell, I'm just finding the Leg here way too entertaining so far to throw her in the brig," Brockhurst said, grinning.

"I'm telling you, you'd fit right into our little gang of misfits, Colonel sir," Michaela said.

"Hey, I was AFSOC for awhile there," Brockhurst said, "Until I decided I liked flying better than sitting in the mud behind rifle sights. As I recall, we could be awfully informal, too, at times."

Nodding, Aura grinned back at him, and then said, thoughtfully, "So Cordelia just, uh, gunned this guy Finn down in cold blood? _Cordelia?_"

"I'm thinking she decided that Cheng and the Major offered better survival potential," Michaela said. "Also thinking she doesn't put up with a lot of bullshit when she's pushed. Didn't exactly have time to ask, seeing as how she was busy running a Terminator through a car crusher when we spoke to her."

"She should fit right in, too," Brockhurst said, his voice dry. Michaela grinned at him, finishing her coffee and signaling for another cup.

"What, hard headed, insubordinate, and homicidal?"

There was suddenly a green glowing, small blonde faerie with rapidly blurring wings hovering near Aura's chair. Michaela blinked at it, completely nonplussed.

"Lady Aura!" the little apparition piped up, throwing a snappy salute at the girl. "Private Pooka reporting!"

"Ummm... right," Aura said, nodding. She sighed and looked like she was contemplating banging her head against the table.

"Are you seeing what I'm seeing, Chief Warrant Officer?" Brockhurst said, slowly.

"Are you seeing a small glowing pixie? 'Cause if you're not, then I think I'm running so low on sleep, I'm hallucinating now."

"Hey! I'm not a halluci- halluci- whatever. I'm a Pooka Bell," the small, uh, being said, looking indignant.

"Uh huh, of course you are," Michaela said, nodding slowly. She started to smile broadly.

Sighing, Aura shook her head, rolled her eyes, and said, "Report, Pooka."

"Ma'am! Am reporting that the First Sergeant Major and the Colonel General are here, ma'am," Pooka, uh, Bell said. Michaela's interest sharpened abruptly.

"Oh... uh, Benjy? And wow, her Dad? Already?"

"Uh huh. Private First Scout 'Kat wants to know what to do, ma'am."

"Sigh. Hang on one, Pook," Aura said. She looked at Michaela and the Colonel, her expression suddenly serious. "Considering that the cat is apparently out of the bag here, now," she said, motioning at the pixie, "I'm going to have to trust you further, I guess. I think I can, based on everything. But I'm going to _state_ flat out here: there are _not_ going to be any brass, scientists, secret disappearances, or labs involved here."

Michaela whipped her head around and stared at the girl. "That's not even a good joke, miss."

"I'm not joking. I am deadly serious," Aura said, her eyes hard. "I have to _know_. Because these _are_, or were, _children_ that you are about to meet. No matter _what_ they look like now. At least they were regular kids before some idiot apparently named Ethan Rayne decided to play a magical practical joke on Sunnydale on Halloween night. And let me _assure_ you: _no one _is going to let _anything_ happen to _any_ of them. Period, end discussion."

Michaela looked at her, thinking furiously. Nodded. "You have my word that I can be trusted, and so can Brockhurst. Ma'am, the Company occasionally has to _kill_ nonhumans, when they're a hostile threat. We _don't_ make war on innocents and victims, and we do _not_ run secret concentration camps."

Brockhurst nodded. "While I'm aware that the U. S. Military has done and does do some iffy things, that goes for me as well."

"Lady Aura?" Pooka said. "_'Kat_ says that she's Tech-comm _Command_, ma'am. She _wouldn't_."

"She is, huh?" Aura stared at her hard for a few more minutes, and then nodded abruptly. "All right. Pook, go bring 'em in. I think that Benjy and Lieutenant Colonel Sheridan are going to want to meet these people."

"Ma'am! Right away, ma'am." The diminutive being zipped away so fast she left a tiny, sparkling contrail. Michaela and Brockhurst watched her vanish with wide-eyed amazement.

The corners of Michaela's lips curled up further into a smile, her eyes dancing. "So," she said, looking at the suddenly hard eyed teenage girl, "I gather that we have rather serendipitously happened upon the command structure of the local Sunnydale Militia. All kind of by accident like."

"You have indeed, Chief Warrant Officer," Aura said, dryly. Slowly, her lips twitched and then curled up into a matching smile. "I'm kind of a late inductee, myself. But since I seem to have suddenly found myself a part of the local command structure, I fully intend to take care of _my_ own, as well. Whatever that entails."

"Noted," Brockhurst said, his own eyes dancing merrily. "A commendable attitude, I must say."

Sighing again, Aura said, "Congratulations. You're about to meet the First Scouts and the upper Command Staff of the First Sunnydale Irregulars, Tech-Comm, North American Resistance Command. You've already met the lone available representative of the Scooby Gang." Smiling oddly, she shook her head and added, "And how _I_ got to be an Irregulars officer, I'll never understand. I think I was drafted."

"Oh?" Brockhurst's eyebrows went up. "And just what are they, um, you resisting?"

"Oh, just about anything that's unlucky enough to get crossways of them, ah, us," Aura said. "Which in this town, covers some pretty broad and strange territories. Think army ants versus goblins and you'll have a pretty good idea."

"Uh, should we be meeting them here?" Brockhurst said, looking around the cafeteria.

"You'd be freaking _amazed _at what people in this town don't see, Colonel," Aura said. "I know I was."

* * *

_Monday, November 3, 1997: __Sunnydale Medical Complex __cafeteria__, Sunnydale, Morning 6:1__5__am –_

Damned good thing that they were sitting down in a booth now, having commandeered one of the big corner ones for their now about to be larger group. 'Cause if she'd been walking, the double take and stutter step on her bad knee would have made Chief Warrant Officer, now self promoted brevet Commander, Michaela Reeves stumble and fall.

And that would have just been all embarrassing and shit.

A quick sideways glance at her military, well, Chair Force anyway, companion showed that he was in about the same straits. Aura, on the other hand, was grinning from ear to ear at the expressions on both their faces. Bitch.

A quick glance was all she could manage to spare. Reeves was having way too hard a time deciding where and what to stare at first.

She did manage to close her mouth, though. No need to look like a slack jawed yokel.

Ho-kay. There was the little pixie girl, sitting on the left shoulder of a smallish girl of about eleven, standing next to another not so smallish elven year old, and another. And more for them, later.

There was a little devil girl. That was really all there was to say about it. Michaela felt all of her South Texas Baptist upbringing, that she'd managed to painfully and with great effort shed and discard over the years, standing up inside of her screaming. But... yeah. Dark red-gold skin, a mass of tumbling red gold hair, small horns, count 'em, two, merrily cheerful red eyes, and a spade tipped tail. Oh, and a grin with way too many pointed teeth in it.

Wearing a dark, dark green My Little Pony t-shirt, a pair of black leggings and calf high boots, and a long, past the knee, loose and flowing cream colored skirt. Michaela blinked. My Little Pony just wasn't computing.

Two, count 'em, two cat girls. Only word for it. One had short black fur that looked seal soft and about the length of that on a domestic Russian Blue. Looked like it would display a sheen like that too, when rubbed just right. Long black hair, currently in a mid-back length pony tail. One had gray, jaguar spotted fur with white on the hands, feet, face, throat, upper chest, and probably the chest and belly too for all Michaela knew or could tell. And a tumbling mane of dark gray and white streaked hair down her back from the head, with lynx fringe along the jaws, and long fetlocks type fringe along the forearms and shins. Cat's eyes too. Orange red on one, green yellow on the other, with slit pupils. Green-yellow changing to blue on occasion...

Both were wearing loose fitting sleeveless t-shirts over mid-sleeve jersey style tees. The black one had loose shorts on, and the gray one had a mid thigh length short skirt. Stretch material... well, Michaela guessed that she wouldn't want too much in the way of binding or tight clothes on if she had fur, either. Both were barefoot, and both looked like they could have impressive claws in the pad fingertips.

And Aura had been right, too, dammit. They were _kids_. Anywhere from four five to five two. And probably no more than nine to eleven years old, if she could even begin to judge.

And, dammit to hell. All _four_ of them, including the pixie girl, were looking at one Michaela Reeves like she was a combination of the newly Risen Christ, the returned Elvis, President Sam Houston, and General Robert E. Lee back from the grave. The hell?

"Wow. An actual Tech-comm Commander," the little devil girl breathed out. "_Two_ of 'em." The two cat girls and the pixie nodded solemnly, looking, well, awed.

Michaela had to bite down hard on an insane impulse to ask 'em if a cat had their tongues...

Damn, but she needed sleep.

"Tech-comm?" Brockhurst said quietly, his voice curious.

"Tech-comm, North American Resistance Command, North American Resistance," Michaela said, her voice on automatic pilot. "From Terminator 1 and T2."

"Ma'am, yes ma'am," the black cat girl said, apparently having found her voice. Her eyes were absolutely huge. "Private First Scout Kitty Kat, First Sunnydale Irregulars, reporting, ma'am."

"Uh... hi," Michaela said. Brockhurst began making quiet choking sounds, and Michaela elbowed him smartly in the side. Ow. Need to get that arm looked at, too.

"It really does make sense once you know the background, ma'am," one of the, uh, normal girls said. And, wow...

Ok. Take one regulation issue eleven year old girl, wash in hot, and run her through the dryer twice on extra-dry, thereby shrinking her into a four foot four inch package. Give her just to the collar length light brown hair. Give her a snub nose, and a dusting of freckles, and an extra ration of extra cute from the armory. Give her an olive drab jumper, kind of like a one piece, sleeveless and deep V-neck almost to the navel top mated to a pair of mid calf length OD capri pants, with a gathered waist and a built in belt. Dark green socks and high top black and camo Timberland Hikers. Give her an urban camo shirt and tee shirt, over a long sleeved dark olive green tee, with a regular OD half sleeved fitted Bolero jacket over that. Give her a leather bomber jacket slung casually over the shoulder by the fingers of the right hand. And give her a wicked looking double tube wrist rocket slung by the pouch from the left shoulder, and a woodland camo fanny pack.

And give her patches on the breast of the jumper that say U.S. Army on the right, and Rangers on the left, and a name tag that reads "Benjy Sheridan." Oh, and a pair of metal dog tags. And the partially visible legend: ANGE EAD THE WA on the urban camo tee in gold lettering.

And now give her a pair of large, almost anime large, clear, medium gray eyes to complete the image. Top it all off with a camouflage billed military style cap.

"Heya, and you would be?" At least Michaela hadn't lost the power of semi-coherent speech, that was all to the good.

"Ma'am. First Sergeant Benjy Sheridan, Tech-comm. First Sunnydale Irregulars, commanding," she said, nodding crisply and snapping her heels together smartly. "And this is my father, Lieutenant Colonel Michael Sheridan, 75th U.S. Rangers, Retired, currently Commander in Chief of the Irregulars, ma'am."

"Uh huh," Michaela said. She felt her spine snapping straight almost involuntarily, glancing at the taller, older man with renewed interest, before looking back at the improbable munchkin standing arrow straight before her, regarding her back gravely.

And any jokes about small soldiers that might have been even _remotely_ dancing in the back of Michaela's mind suddenly died in her throat, unspoken.

Because there was absolutely fucking zero in that suddenly clear, hard, and icy cold even gray gaze from those big eyes, suddenly narrowing in critical appraisal, that invited ridicule in any form or fashion whatsoever. Not one single thing.

Large, dangerous people would move away from those eyes, if they had even an ounce of the good sense that God gave a jackrabbit.

As if she were reading Michaela's mind, Aura murmured, "Dangerous people _have_ moved out of the Irregulars' way. Or been moved."

And hell, she might be, for all of that. Her thoughts were probably stamped all over her stupidly expressive face, Michaela thought. She glanced over at Aura, and saw that the girl was enjoying all this far too much. Couldn't blame her...

"Suggest you take us seriously, and don't laugh or snicker, ma'am," the other, taller girl said, quietly. "Because I can assure you: 'Kat, Chessie, Devila, and Pooka take_ all_ of this with _lethal_ seriousness."

Oh-kay. Taller, 'bout four eleven to five foot, slender, long dark hair, and vaguely Asian in the same way that Michaela was. Exotic. Wearing a pair of khaki LL Bean cargo pocket slacks tucked into expensive looking hikers, a designer looking camo t-shirt, an LL Bean sage colored shirt over that, and an LL Bean bush/hunting jacket. And another, different brand of wrist rocket slung over a shoulder. Standing hipshot in comparison to Benjy's casual at attention.

And nothing whatsoever invited laughter or ridicule in _those_ eyes, either. Far from it. _Leaphorn_ had eyes like that looking through the scope of a precision rifle.

Michaela raised an eyebrow inquiringly, and the girl added, "Private Misty Pantine, Marksman, First Sunnydale Irregulars. And this is Private Sergeant Captain Stephanie Rogers, or Cap," she said, indicating the tall, blonde haired girl on Benjy's other side, next to 'Kat.

Nodding, the girl said, "Stephanie Rogers, yes. And, an honor to meet you, ma'am."

Ok. Tall, as noted. Maybe five five or five six, which would make her tall for an eleven year old. Gonna be a six footer some day. Blue jeans, blue shirt over a white tee, and a dark red leather jacket. And a shield on one arm... Red concentric stripes with a blue center with a star in it...

"Stephanie _Rogers_, Cap... Captain _America_?" Michaela said, blinking.

Stephanie nodded, smiling. "Ma'am."

_She_ did _not_ look like there was an ounce of joke in her on _that_.

She looked an inquiry at the tall, gray eyed man, and he said, "My daughter already made an introduction, but... as she said: Lieutenant Colonel Michael Sheridan, United States Army, 75th Rangers, 1st Ranger Battalion, currently retired. And this is my wife, Michelle Sheridan."

The woman next to him was slim, about ten years his junior, which put her at about her late thirties, and had dark red hair, medium length.

"Sir, ma'am," Michaela said, formally. "I'd rise, and either salute or shake hands, but my bum knee won't allow me to stand unaided at the moment. It's embarrassing, frankly." She took a deep breath, let it out, and added, "Chief Warrant Officer Michaela Reeves, currently On Site_ Commander_ Michaela Reeves, U.S. Army, currently of the Black Company. Pleased."

"Sir. Ma'am." Brockhurst did rise. "Lieutenant Colonel William Brockhurst, United States Air Force, currently attached to Vandenberg Air Force Base. Likewise, pleased to meet you."

"Likewise," Sheridan and his wife shook hands with Brockhurst, and leaned in to shake with Michaela. "And no need to rise, Captain, and definitely no need to salute. I'm retired."

"No such thing as a _former_ Ranger, sir," Michaela said automatically.

"Have it your way, Commander," Sheridan said, his eyes crinkling. "Aura," he said, nodding to the girl.

"Colonel."

"Michael. Told you that," Sheridan said.

"Naw. You're Colonel to me, since Halloween and ever after," Aura said, grinning up at him. "Oh – and _that_ is Jesse McNally."

"Don't mind me, I'll just stand here quietly in the background basking in the anonymity," McNally said, smiling. "Please to meet you, uh, Officer, Colonel. Or is it Lieutenant Colonel?"

"Colonel is fine, son," Brockhurst said, smiling. "Brockhurst or Brock are better. William or Will are adequate. Just not Bill, ever."

"Colonel," McNally said, nodding. Tall, slimly muscular and well built, dark hair and eyes. Something oddly familiar about that kid... something in the movement.

"Oh, sit down, goof," Aura said. "After we let the troops slide in, and the Colonel and Michelle sit, so that Michaela won't have to try to cripple her way up onto her feet."

* * *

"Huh. I knew a James Buckley, Ranger, in 'Nam in '68 and '69. But he was a fuzz chin Second Louie then, straight out of West Point and Rot-see and moving up on First," Sheridan said, frowning.

"Might be the same one, sir," Michaela said, nodding. "But you'll pardon me if I forget the fuzz chin comment. Wouldn't do for me to pull it out of my, uh, butt at the wrong moment."

"Gonna have to forgive the Leg here, Colonel," Brockhurst said. "Having all these kids around is putting a damper on her usual curse like a sailor on leave modus operandi and she's reeling from having to compensate."

Michaela resisted an impulse to stick her tongue out at him and elbow him again. Didn't do any good, and just hurt her elbow.

"Hah." Michelle Sheridan said, eying Michaela critically. "Forgive me for putting my mom hat on, Commander, but you look like you're reeling more from exhaustion and injury than from having to bite your tongue. Although," she grinned impishly, "That's probably not helping."

Michaela grinned back. Damn, but she liked these people. "Am, ma'am. But I'll just have to FIDO. Got too many people down or in enemy hands, and no one else can do what I have to do right now."

"I understand, Commander," Michelle said. "And it's Michelle, not ma'am. I was never in the military."

"Then it's Michaela, not Commander or Chief," Michaela said. Hrmm. Gray eyes also. Blue-gray. First Sergeant Benjy came by it honest, then. "And that's ok. I'm sure some of Call-me-Maggie's goons will give me a reason to let my inner longshoreman out before long."

"They have yet to fail, so far," Brockhurst said, nodding. "Have to say that I doubted you, Aura. But you are right: it is purely amazing what people seem to refuse to notice here."

"It is," Aura said.

He, or rather they, were right. Cap, Benjy, and Misty had taken chairs and pulled them up to the outside of the booth's table, letting the three, uh, non-humans sit in between Michaela and Michelle. But so far, while they had gotten a few glances, quickly averted, no one looked twice at them. Waitresses came and went, delivering coffee, water, milk and soda refills with nary a glance or a blink. Or even a raised eyebrow. Acquaintances of the Sheridan's stopped to wave or say hello, and moved on, looking straight past or through 'Kat, Devila, Chessie, and the small faerie without apparently registering them.

Downright weird.

Hell, Michaela's battle rifle and the two Griffin & Howe's got more and longer looks than the two cat girls.

"Occurs to me," Aura said, eying the two cat girls and Devila, "That Joyce is gonna be having a cow and kittens about you guys going off on your own like this." Devila squirmed in her seat, looking suddenly uncomfortable.

"We spoke with Joyce before we left home," Michelle said. "She is not happy, but since she knows where they are now, and we're here to supervise, she'll deal with it. For now. But be advised: _all_ of you will probably get yelled at when you get home. And Dawn is grounded."

All four of them, including Stephanie, gulped audibly, and nodded.

"Joyce?" Brockhurst asked.

"Local mother," Michael said. "Since... there are some difficulties involved with this little troupe being able to go home again, she's taken all seven of them under her wing and into her home."

"Seven?" Michaela said, blinking and looking at the five at hand.

"Yes ma'am," Benjy said. "In addition to the trio, Pooka, and Cap here, Wicked and Saavik also didn't change back. Um... Wicked: tall, wicked faerie princess, very upright and proper. Saavik: half Romulan girl from 'Wrath of Kahn' and 'Search for Spock', only about ten or eleven. Wicked, Sav, and Dawn are a part of the Irregulars Special Operations and Parley Team."

"Oh-kay," Michaela said, resisting another urge to beat her head against something dense and solid. Like Brockhurst.

"Yeah, Joyce Summers, aka Buffy's mom," Aura said, "I think is adopting them because they really _don't_ have anywhere to go. I'd do it, but my parents aren't that cool, and they are _not_ 'in the know', as we say."

"Nice lady, it sounds like. And very open minded," Brockhurst said. "And no wonder you've been drafted as an officer."

Devila nodded enthusiastically. "Mom is great. So is Lady Aura."

"I'm thinking they've adopted her back," Michaela said, dryly. "I met a Joyce Summers last night. Buffy?"

"Summers. The Slayer." Jesse said. "If you saw the various news footages like you say, the girl on Altameeras Tower with the large gorilla? Long story, that one."

Brockhurst blinked again, and Michaela echoed him again, but probably for different reasons. "Why, yes, I did, matter of fact," she said. "A _Slayer_, here? I have _got_ to _meet_ this girl. And get autographs for the entire company."

"A fan girl, huh?" Brockhurst said, grinning.

"Oh, hay-ull yes," Michaela said, nodding. "I've _heard_ of the One Girl, but have never met one or seen one in action. A few of ours have, and I'm jealous as all hell."

"You have, too," Jesse said. "Kendra, killing Spike on the FYI footage, and then getting shredded by Creed."

"Wait, time out. _Two_ of them?" Michaela said, her jaw dropping slightly.

"I can't believe it," Brockhurst said, shaking his head and smiling. "Mighty Mite, Queen of Death and Destruction, actually in awe here and drooling like a tweenie at an N'Snych concert."

Michaela elbowed him scowling. _Ow_. Damned helo crash. "Am not. Well, I am in awe, yeah."

"It's a thing," Jesse said. "We're not exactly sure how it happened yet, but yeah. There are two 'One Girls' now."

"One Girl?" Brockhurst asked.

"One Girl in All the World," Michael Sheridan said, smiling oddly, "Chosen to stand against the forces of darkness, etc. And you'd best realize that a lot of trust has just been placed in you two. It was thoroughly impressed upon Michelle and I that the Slayer is a heavily guarded secret for her own protection."

"Well, except in Sunnydale, where it seems that every third person knows about Buffy," Aura said. "And not _one_ of them told _me_." She folded her arms, huffing.

"Someone trying to harm a Slayer on _my_ watch will eat the magazine of my battle rifle," Michaela said, her voice and expression gathering thunderclouds, "Projectiles first."

"And that pretty much answers that," Brockhurst said. "I suspect that one more secret isn't going to strain us all that much in the keeping."

"Does Call-me-Maggie fu- uh, freaking Walsh know about them?" Michaela said, her mind racing furiously.

"Don't know," Michael said, frowning. "That is worrisome." Aura and Jesse nodded, frowning and looking thoughtful.

"Hesitant to place them under protective guard," Michaela said, scowling, "As that would assuredly draw the attention of Walsh's goons."

"Our problems do seem to be multiplying like rabbits and cats in Oz," Brockhurst said.

Jesse nodded, exchanging uncomfortable looks with Aura. "Creed already paid a visit last night to drop off flowers. Chief Stein wants to put a police guard on them, for all the good it might do, but... "

"Sunnydale PD is a bit short of manpower lately," Aura said, nodding.

Shaking her head, Michaela suppressed a pained expression. Brockhurst's comparison to rabbits in Australia was apt. "That fella being on the loose is just a bit worrisome."

"Just a touch," Colonel Sheridan said, nodding.

An uncomfortable and pensive silence fell over the table for a short time...

"Can I go scout the Pizza Barn again, First Sergeant?" Pooka Bell piped up, getting a grin and a scowl from Benjy.

"No, Pook. Not now," Benjy said, smiling and shaking her head. Misty snickered, and Benjy shot her a look and added, "Don't encourage her."

"Pizza Barn?"

Benjy looked at her and grinned again. "We get a chance, we'll tell you about the Second Battle of the Pizza Barn, Halloween night. I understand it was something else... of course, I didn't _know_ it was Pook's _second_ raid at the time when I sent her out for provisions."

"According the news, there were people bailing out right and left screaming about giant radioactive glowing mutant bats," Misty said, nodding. "Not to mention the knock down drag out battle there between Pook and the Lost Boys two pixies."

"Pooka Bell won," Benjy said, dryly. "Three for three, or maybe four for four. I kinda lost count at one point."

"Five!" Pooka said, holding up four fingers.

"Figures."

Brockhurst chuckled, looking entranced, and Michael Sheridan said, "As I'm given to understand, it's called Sunnydale Syndrome by some of the, ah, in the know people. Natural human tendency to rationalize away things that conflict with their world views, and exacerbated by the presence of the Hellmouth."

"Hellmouth, costume transformations, vampires, demons... " Brockhurst shook his head. "Just what the hell is going on in your town here, Colonel?"

"Yeah. We are definitely going to need to get a full briefing at some point," Michaela said, nodding. "Walsh's was, ah, less than complete, as was her advance information packet. And I'm inclined to distrust a lot of the news reports on the basis of that rationalization thing, plus just normal media misinformation, and outright disinformation."

"What. You don't trust the people's information networks?" Aura said, her eyes widening.

Michaela grinned at her. "About as far as you could throw Brockhurst here, Miss Breckenridge."

"Smart lady," Jesse said. "But... I think you can put some trust in the FYI stuff. Kolchak and his partner, Perry, seemed to be pretty sharp and pretty honest."

"I'll make note of that," Michaela said. She stared at him, and snapped her fingers suddenly. "Damn, that's it. That smack on the noggin I got climbing out of my wrecked Apache must've rattled my brains more than I thought. I'm usually real good at recognizing kinesthetics and body language."

"Huh?" Jesse blinked at her.

"You're the kid that fought Sabretooth on the FYI vid. The one in the Iron Fist suit," Michaela said.

"Uh, guilty, kinda," McNally said, ducking his head and looking embarrassed. "Although that was actually the _real_ Daniel Rand-kai before he left, both times."

"The first two times," Aura said. "It was pure Jesse McNally the third and last time."

"Oh, really? So, you kept the skill set?" Michaela said.

"Uh, kind of," Jesse said, shrugging. "As was pointed out to me," his voice went dry, "I need a lot of work before I measure up to the real thing."

"Yeah," Aura said, scowling. "Creed said he was going to drop in twice a year to see if Jesse was able to stop from being killed by him yet, before Creed gets serious about it."

"Ouch. Gonna have to do something about him, once I get backup," Michaela said.

"Victor Creed is kind of hard to stop, and especially hard to put down for good," Jesse said.

"True enough. And can't be helped. Gotta be done," Michaela said, shrugging.

Brockhurst nodded, and said, "Back to the issue of what the hell is going on here, Colonel?"

Michaela said, frowning, "Why don't we table the full, for the moment, and just give us the précis, please. While I would dearly love the full briefing, I am out on my feet so badly I'm having problems tracking, sorry to say. Let's get together and do the full after I've had eight, plus a look over on my battle fatigue and current condition."

"Agreed," Brockhurst said. "Précis even would be helpful."

"Hrmm." Aura said, looking thoughtful. "I know the Sheridan's place is crowded, the library is out for the moment, and mine is out of the question... " she snapped her fingers. "Got it. I'll call Tam. Her parents are in on the whole big secret, plus they're fully briefed on Halloween night. Really big house. And you may want and need to talk to her and Jonathan, too."

"Jonathan? Tam?" Michaela blinked at her.

"Levinson. He apparently dressed as some World War II guy, and helped Xander rescue Cordy from the Larry-bot, and a lot of other people as well," Aura said. "At the Bronze, when Larry-bot shot up the Cordettes and killed a couple of us."

"Uh huh. Audie Murphy, Tam said," Jesse said, looking thoughtful.

Brockhurst and Michaela both exchanged long looks, and then Michaela turned back, grinning from ear to ear. "You're shitting me! Uh, pardon my French." That got a round of giggles and snickers from the munchkin gallery, and she said, "I've _got_ to meet this kid."

"Likewise," Brockhurst said, nodding.

Michael and Michelle Sheridan grinned at them, and Michael said, "All right. Précis. Here goes... "

After he was done, with a lot of input from Aura, Benjy, Misty, and the others, both Michaela and Brockhurst were left blinking and stunned.

"Oh-kay," Michaela said. "That's gonna take some absorbing. But I have a much better idea what I'm looking at now."

"You mean to tell me... " Brockhurst said, slowly, "That some idiot really did wave a magic wand and caused all of this- this, chaos, destruction, and sheer lunacy?"

"Well, it's a bit more involved than that," Michaela said, ignoring Brockhurst's glare at her and sailing on, "But in essence, yeah. Hey, magic works, Colonel Chair Force, get used to it, ASAP. I've seen it." She shook her head, "But on this kind of scale, it'd take a serious powerhouse of a mage, or at least the input of a lesser deity level entity to do it."

"Janus, as I'm given to understand," Michael said, and Jesse nodded.

"Ok, _greater_ deity level entity," Michaela said, stunned.

"But... "

"Colonel?" Benjy looked at him, tilting her head, and said, "You've accepted and absorbed a killer robot from the future, and all of this," she gestured at 'Kat and the others, "So why is magic such a big stretch?"

Misty nodded. "What, you think Boris and Natasha hit us with the Terminatatron and a megaton of Transformaboom from orbit?"

Brockhurst glared at them, and then started to grin. "Guess I had that coming. But... I guess I haven't yet really absorbed and accepted so much as I've just been reeling along in shock trying to FIDO and deal with the effects so far."

Michelle Sheridan nodded. "I do know the feeling, Brock. It hit us like that on Halloween night. And you don't even have a daughter lost in the middle of it."

"Hey! We wasn't lost," Benjy said.

'Kat and the others nodded. "Knew right where we were all the time."

"It was getting from there to _here_ that was the problem," Misty said, grinning.

"Girls... " Michelle said, her voice full of warning.

"Yes'm."

"I stand corrected and abashed," Brockhurst said.

"Well, actually, you're sitting," Aura pointed out.

"Figure of speech."

Michaela grinned, nodding. "The company dealt with a similar outbreak of insanity and chaos in Detroit a few years back, on Devil's Night. Wonder if it was this Rayne character there, too? We never did learn."

Her cell buzzed in her pocket, and she pulled it out, glanced at it curiously, and then answered it. "Reeves." After listening for a few minutes, she said, "Be _right_ there," and closed and put it away.

"Problem?"

"Yeah, might say that," Michaela said. "Colonel, slide out and help me up. Harris is awake and being moved to ICU recovery, and one of our fake DIA goons is raising a stink with my MPs. I'll be right back after I kill him."

"Backup?" Brockhurst said, standing and giving her a hand getting up. She tested her leg gingerly, and nodded. Have to do.

"Naw," Michaela said. "Have a battle rifle and a short squad of MPs and a couple of sympathetic SPD officers. I'll do jest fine."

"I'll listen for gunfire and watch for the mushroom cloud," Brockhurst said, and Michaela grinned up at him.

"Lemme out, Jess," Aura said. "I'm going too."

"No. You are _not_," Michaela said. "_Sit_ back down." Aura glared at her, half risen, and Michaela added, "I do _not_ need an additional civilian in the line of fire. This probably _won't__,_ but it _could_ get ugly."

"I want to find out about Xander," Aura said, her voice low and dangerous sounding. The seven heads of the Irregulars went back and forth like spectators at a tennis match.

"I can tell you that he is out of surgery, and going to recover after having broken bones, contusions, and shrapnel injuries dealt with," Michaela said. "I'll know more after I get there, and I will pass it back on to you. He will be all right, but not if I stand here arguing and don't get there in time to shoot a goon or two if needed."

"Aura," Michael Sheridan said, quietly. "Let the lady do her job." He looked at his daughter, and added, "And Beverly, you are _not_ going to order Chessie, 'Kat, and Devila to go watch. _End_ of subject." He aimed an index finger and added, pointedly, "This means you, Devila."

The devil girl shrank back, her ears flattened against the sides of her skull and her eyes wide and innocent looking.

Benjy closed her mouth, and sighed. Aura sighed, too, and waved. "Go."

Michaela went.

Frigging civilians.

* * *

Her cell phone buzzed again as she was limping her way quickly up to the ER desk from the cafeteria. Michaela glanced at it, nodded once to herself, and put it away again. Important, but it'd have to wait. No. On second thought...

She flipped the phone open and said, "Reeves. All due respect and sorry to be abrupt, ma'am, but make it short. Have a crisis and I am inbound. Whattya got for me, Colonel ma'am?"

«Captain Reeves.» Colonel Danvers said, and Michaela stutter-stepped briefly, before recovering and driving on. «Condolences on your crisis, and best wishes for a successful and happy resolution.»

"Heya, at this point, I get to make 'em dead, _I'll_ be happy at least. Again, whattaya got, ma'am?"

«I won't delay you by asking for your report. Call me back and give it later. Be advised. The salutation was not, repeat_, not _a misapprehension on my part, nor a sign of approaching Alzheimer disease. You are now and of this moment, brevet _Captain_ Michaela Reeves of the Black Company. Your orders and insignia are inbound via courier.» Pause. «It _would_ be brevet_ Major_, however, I was unable to slide that past the Joint Chief.»

Yikes! Man oh man. This shit done got serious.

"Ma'am. In brief: am reporting that our main hostile was neutralized by subject Chase. Query: Is my Heavy Response Team inbound with 'em?"

«Excellent. And, negative, Captain. Be advised that we currently have an unexpected shortfall of field ready teams that are not currently assigned to crisis areas. Be advised further that Director Walsh of the Defense Research Initiative project has very low friends in very high places who are not, repeat _not_, happy with the reports she is sending them. Further, they are not happy with the interference and lack of cooperation she reports receiving from the HCT sent to assist her.»

Well shit fire and check to the newly promoted Eurasian-American warrant who just got a sudden kick to the solar plexus.

"Well, I'd apologize, ma'am, except that currently I'm only sorry that I didn't cap the bitch between the eyes when I had the opportunity. Even if it would have set off the battle of the Bulge on the diorama scale."

«Understood. My understanding is that she badly needs shooting. However, be advised that that is not, repeat not, an option on your table. It has been removed from play.»

Well... crap.

"Ma'am, yes ma'am. The bitch is not to be shot. Implication being that stabbing, blowing up, or nailing her with a Hellfire may be also ill advised. Received loud and clear, ma'am. May I shoot her toy soldiers if they get in my way? Being advised and all that I intend to regardless of the answer, ma'am."

«Oddly enough, Dr. Walsh's military contingent was not mentioned in the hands off order. Do be advised, however, that the bitch is importing replacements for her down and combat lossed units.»

"Check. Enemy reinforcements inbound. Orders, ma'am? And what _are_ you sending me, if anything?"

Michaela couldn't help the edge of frustration that crept into her voice on that last. And, hell with it. The Colonel would understand, or she would not.

«Captain Reeves. Your orders are as follows: You are hereby placed in command and control of the local situation with full backing and authority invested in you by Command. Said command to persist for the duration or until such a time as you are properly relieved of command by your direct commanders _only_. Person of interest Alexander Harris is not, repeat not, to be released to Director Walsh, nor to her men, under any circumstances. Use whatever means are necessary, and whatever means are at your disposal to achieve that objective, subject to previous limitation. Further orders: you are to secure the local situation by whatever means come to hand. You have extended latitude. Your written orders are inbound with your brevet. Understood?»

"Loud and clear, ma'am. And Miss Chase?"

«Be advised, Captain, that Director Walsh has staked territorial claim to one Cordelia D. Chase, and has fullest backing of her superiors. Do not, repeat do not, attempt to implement standard 'subject in enemy hands' protocols. Do, repeat, _do_ use whatever means are at your disposal to ensure Cordelia D. Chase's health and well being within the confines of that limitation. Director Walsh's superiors are extremely sympathetic to the director's request that she be allowed to retain control of subject for purposes of intelligence retrieval. Understood?»

Well, fuck. And it gets worse and worse.

"Understood, ma'am. Will attempt as my next trick walking on water. Film at eleven."

«Sarcasm received and accepted in the spirit in which it was intended, Captain. Now: I am sending you a legal advisor and an investigator to assist you in your endeavors, along with all requisite paperwork. Further, you are receiving two troubleshooters from Zulu. Expect Moseby and Merrill, inbound with your brevet insignia and orders. They are at your complete disposal, along with the legal and investigative advisors, subject to aforementioned limitations. Understood?»

"Loud and clear, ma'am. Anything further?"

Meaning, should I continue to bend over and grab my ankles, ma'am? Or may I pull my pants up yet?

«Negative. Good fortune and good hunting, Captain. And, Michaela... you are now an officer representing the Black Company. Do us proud.»

"Will do, ma'am. Oh. Be advised. We have Slayers in the mix, plural. No way of knowing if Bitch Maggie knows of their presence or existence."

There was a brief silence on the other end, and then, «Ah. That is worrisome. And unexpected. Any indication of Watcher's Council presence as well?»

"Some, ma'am. I have a possible. Will make cautious contact with him. Note ma'am: I _will_ go off the rez if I discover that Walsh is in the know on this, and _will_ cap her with extreme prejudice and enjoyment. My responsibility and initiative. May I delay my full report until I have had eight of forty, and my injuries tended?"

«That will be acceptable, Captain, on all counts. Are you functional?»

"Ma'am, no ma'am. Am NFG, actually. But am ambulatory and prepared to FIDO, as there is no other recourse or option."

«Understood, Captain. Danvers out.»

"Michaela out."

Sighing, Michaela closed the phone and put it away. Well, hell.

Sigh. Well, fuck me running sideways. Damned good thing she'd never bothered to reexamine that whole God thing to see if it was worth reacquiring, 'cause if she had, then right now the Big Guy would be getting a piece of her mind she really couldn't spare.

And, huh. An awful lot in that conversation, both unstated and implied, _and_ between the lines. It was going to have to be examined carefully later.

Meanwhile...

Alone, wounded, outnumbered, and outgunned. Behind enemy lines with one commandeered Chair Force officer, a few locals, couple a civilian allies, and suddenly, more orders and authority than she knew what to do with. Do us proud.

Damned straight.

Brevet Captain Michaela Reeves of the Black Company squared her shoulders, raised her head, and prepared to fuck it and drive on. Hell, got 'em right where they want me.

And that's _always_ the most dangerous place to have one of the Company. Just ask the people that faced down Lieutenants Barkley and Allred on their last run.

Michaela never noticed the small, very dimly glowing figure trailing along behind her, high up near the ceiling tiles...

Umbridge of the fake DIA was having a heated discussion with the four MPs and the two SPD officers when she slowed and started ambling up. The two CHP guys and the Deputies were staying out of it for the moment.

She swallowed a grin when she saw one of the Deputies murmuring to the others and money being passed and collected...

"I have a warrant now that says otherwise," Umbridge said, waving a folded piece of fax paper.

"Really? Let me see that," Michaela said, walking up with her hand caressing the grip of her AR-10. The two SPD officers backed away, nodding to her.

Umbridge glared down at her, but extended the warrant without comment, and replaced the glare with a smirk. Accepting the warrant, she scanned over it, her eyes flickering across the print. Uh huh. Uh huh. And signed, too.

"Cool. Goody for you." Smiling, she calmly ripped the warrant in half, half again, crumpled it into a small ball, and handed it back to him.

With his mouth open, Umbridge accepted it back, briefly, and then he let it drop and glared at her. Michaela looked back at him, calmly, her palm caressing the pistol grip of her battle rifle, with four Fort Halleck MPs flanking her to either side, M4s and shotguns held at low ready.

"You... " Umbridge swallowed and managed to get himself under a semblance of control. "You _can't_ just tear up a Federal Warrant and ignore it, Chief Warrant Officer."

"Boy, the way people keep feeding me straight lines around here, I should go into stand up," Michaela said, calmly. "I just did that thing. Now, let me reiterate and emphasize for the short bus students in the viewing audience. No one, not nobody, is taking control of my person of interest. Period, end of discussion. Get another warrant. Get all you want. I don't care if they're signed by the Chief Justice of the United States, and the U.S. Attorney General, they won't get you Alexander Harris. Why? Because _no one _outranks Mr. Winchester Short Magnum here, and _you_ are _not_ capable of enforcing your nonexistent authority. If you believe you have someone who _does_ outrank Mr. Winchester Short Magnum in my hands, then he or she had best bring a regimental combat team with them, because that will be the _only_ way that they are going past, through, over, under, or around me. Dig?"

"We'll just see about that," Umbridge said, practically snarling it. "And believe me, I am looking _forward_ to that little pissing match. Come on," he said over his shoulder as he turned on his heel and stalked off. His other agents followed him, glaring at Michaela as they went.

_Nobody_ noticed the small, very dimly glowing figure high up against the ceiling that streaked out after Umbridge and his men through the automatic doors.

Michaela shook her head and yawned, suddenly feeling grimy, exhausted, and about two _hundred_ and twenty-six years old rather than just twenty-six. She swallowed another grin when she saw money exchanging hands between grinning or scowling cops and bets being paid off.

"Hah." Sergeant Gabriel said. "Not that I'm not finding this more entertaining than one man should be blessed to see, but... are you sure you know what you are doing, Chief Warrant Officer, ma'am?"

"Nope. Making it up as I go along, Sergeant," Michaela said. "Feel free to bail out at any time. Parachutes are on the overhead rack just to your left."

"No, ma'am," Sergeant Gabriel said, shaking his head and smiling. "Just checking to see how deep in we are."

"Oh, 'bout yea high on a giraffe, I think," Michaela said. "And getting deeper by the minute. If it helps any, I have been informed by _my_ command here very recently that I do not have a heavy combat team enroute any more, nor any higher ranks inbound, and that I am in command with our Colonel's full backing. For what that's worth. Basically, I've been told: Fuck it, drive on, you're doing fine, Chief. We're behind you all the way."

"Yeah," another MP said, grinning. "Way, way behind. And making bets on whether you can dog paddle or not, now that they tossed you in the deep end and took away your water wings."

"And my rubber duckie, yup," Michaela said. "However, I have been given temporary authority to do whatever I need to until Major Buckley is able to voice an opinion and stand up to yell it out. You are now looking at Brevet _Captain_ Michaela Reeves of the Black fucking Company. You may kiss my ring now."

"Wow." Sergeant Gabriel shook his head. "I would, but my knees are too weak to hold me up if I kneel. I really like how your new rank is carefully and successfully hidden by the Warrant Officer tabs."

"I'm incog-fucking-nito, yup." Michaela said, smiling at him. "My tabs and brevet orders are enroute by courier along with my two – count 'em – two backup people."

"Wow. They really are sparing no expense," another MP said. "Either that, or they do have utmost confidence, ma'am."

"I'm afraid to ask which it is."

"The traditional reward for a job well done. Another fucking job," Gabriel said. "Speaking of, Captain ma'am. All due respect, but you are out on your damned feet, ma'am. You really need to catch about eight hours of forty winks, and get that damned arm and leg looked at. And that awful looking fucking bruise on your head."

"I know. I will, and I am," Michaela said, nodding. "Just as soon as Harris is stable enough to be moved to a private room, I'm parking my narrow butt in the bed next to him with my new snuggly toy cradled in my arms, and I'm gone for about eight to twelve, or the world ends, which ever comes first. With you guys parked right outside the door under orders to shoot anyone who wants to wake me."

"Well, I'm sure we can manage that," Gabriel said. "And if Mr. Agent and his buddies come back with a new and improved warrant or whatever?"

"We are gonna fob him off with whatever we come up with, up to and including having a sudden, inexplicable loss of English comprehension and speaking ability," Michaela said. "And as soon as Harris is stable to move, I am parking his ass out at Vandenberg under high security. Gonna talk to your commander: you four and your additionals en route are with me for the duration, if you want to be."

"Hell, why not, Captain ma'am," Gabriel said. "Like I said, more entertainment than any one man should be blessed to witness."

"Groovy. Now, I'm gonna go and finish my briefing and then have myself checked over," Michaela said, nodding. "Can you send one of your men out to see if they can hunt me up some 400 grain .416 Rigby soft point and solid? And a box or two of .454 Cashull? Maybe some .505 Gibbs if there is such an animal in this area, and we don't have to see if Kynoch does take out."

"Shee-it, ma'am," one of the MPs said. "You going hunting down in the Carpinteria Tar Pits for Mastodon?"

"Naw. Figured I'd plink me some Initiative Hum-vees if the occasion should arise. And maybe a Sabretooth."

* * *

.


	5. In Enemy Hands -

**Chapter Fifty-eight: In Enemy Hands...**

* * *

_Monday, November 3, 1997: __Sunnydale Medical Complex cafeteria__, Sunnydale, Morning 6:__4__5__am –_

"Sorry about the delay, guys," Michaela said as she sat back down at the big corner booth they'd commandeered. "Had to speak with my Colonel, then deal with a minor issue involving Agent Umbridge, who took umbrage at me tearing his warrant up, got a medical update, and then took a few to rest my injured butt on the way back."

"I thought your butt was the only part of you not injured, Chief," Brockhurst said.

"I'll have to remember to make note that the Zoomie Colonel has been checking out my butt," Michaela said, grinning. "It reinforces all of my stereotypical beliefs about the Air Force."

"Hey, Tailhook was Navy, I'll have you know," Brockhurst said.

"So, what did High Command allow?" Michael Sheridan asked, his eyebrows raised.

"Effective? KMAGYOYO," Michaela said, scowling. "Which, for the civilians in the audience, means – "

"Kiss my ass, guys, you're on your own," Benjy said, grinning.

"Benjy!" Mrs. Sheridan said.

"Sorry, sir," Benjy said, as Aura shook her head, laughing.

"Affirmative, Small Soldier," Michaela said. "Major Buckley _asked_ for the company heavy response team, and instead, _I'm _getting the comedy duo of Merrill and Moseby, and a freaking JAG weenie and one of our CID guys."

"We who are about to be bent over without lube, salute you," Jesse said, shaking his head.

"Pretty much."

"So, Merrill and Moseby? What's wrong with them?" Brockhurst said.

"Oh, nothing so much, really. They're a pair from our troubleshooter unit," Michaela said. "However, if you think that _I'm_ insubordinate and prone to sudden outbreaks of deadly violence, wait 'til you get a load of M&M. I'm a pussycat in comparison."

"Yeow," Brockhurst said. "Sorry I asked."

"Hrrm. Actually, sounds like just what the situation calls for," Sheridan said. "Speaking as a grizzled old former Ranger, anyway."

"There are no _former_ Rangers, sir," Michaela said. "Which, I am not in any way disagreeing with you. All of Morgan's Marauders are like that. Instead of a name patch, _their_ uniforms have: This end toward enemy, pull tab, stand way back."

"Kind of a like a human claymore mine, huh?" Benjy said.

"Yeppers. Human is debatable in Merrill and Moseby's case, however," Michaela said.

"What wrong with nonhuman?" 'Kat said, her ears flattening.

"Nothing, fuzzybutt, stand down. I'm sure the CWO didn't mean it that way," Benjy said. She looked at Michaela. "Have to excuse my scouts. Some are a bit sensitive on some issues."

"No problem, and no apologies needed," Michaela said, gravely. "My apologies if I gave offense."

Benjy nodded.

"'Kat and Chessie are a bit like that. Hand to hand with them is a bit like walking into an operating chainsaw," Misty said.

"They and the Chief here should get along wonderfully," Brockhurst said. "There's a few of Walsh's goons who _wish_ they'd merely walked into a chainsaw."

"Pshaw. You'll turn my head." Michaela grinned at him, and said, "You'll be happy to know at least that it's no longer a mere and lowly Chief Warrant sassing you. I am now Brevet _Captain_ Michaela Reeves of the Black Company, for the duration of the emergency, and in command of our operations in Sunnydale and surrounding vicinity with all due authority etc etc yata yata."

"I am in awe," Brockhurst said. "Someone was actually insane enough to promote you?"

"Beggars the imagination, doesn't it?"

"Congratulations _and_ condolences, Captain Reeves," Sheridan said.

"So, what happens now?" Jesse said, and Aura and all of the Irregulars nodded and looked to Michaela.

"Next you mean? As soon as they tell me that Harris is transferred from recovery to the private room I and the police ordered, I'm gonna park myself in the second bed for as much sleep as I can get before catastrophe hits and wakes me."

"We are parking ourselves in there," Brockhurst said. "I need sleep, too. I'll have one of your Halleck MPs scare me up a cot."

"Gee, I'm not sure I want you seeing my tender young bod in my army skivvies, Colonel Tailhook, sir," Michaela said. "I know how you guys are."

"Told you, that was the Squids, Captain Chief," Brockhurst said, grinning. "I'll close my eyes. Besides, if there's anything more _un_-sexy than Army Green undies, I've yet to see it."

"There is that. I and my non-existent virtue are probably safe, then," Michaela said, nodding. "All right: _t__hen_, I am transferring Harris out to Vandenberg where he can be protected properly, just as soon as he's able to be moved safely. And then I can sigh in relief and devote my attention to the thornier issue of Cordelia Chase."

"Good," Devila said, nodding. "We gonna bust her out?"

"Have been ordered not to. Therefore... I haven't decided yet," Michaela said. "However, _none_ of you are to attempt anything along those lines, y'hear? While _I_ am derogatory toward Walsh's toy soldiers as they are not in my league, they _are_ dangerous, make no mistake. And Walsh _would_ lock you and your friends here in a secret lab and take you apart to see what makes you tick."

"Ratz," Devila said, scowling.

'Kat and Chessie were bristling and it sounded like they were lashing their tails at the mention of secret labs. "They're not gonna do that to Lady Cordelia, are they, huh?" 'Kat said, her ears laid back.

"Not if I and the Colonel here can figure out a way to stop 'em," Michaela said. "My word on it."

"_Can_ you figure out a way, though," Aura said, scowling. "This Walsh sounds like seriously bad news."

"Not sure yet," Michaela said, "But regardless, I'm going to have to. And yes, she is. And I really should have capped her when I had the chance and the excuse."

"Too many armed cops around the first time," Brockhurst said, his tone reasonable. "And too many cops, too many civilians, and too many of their backup the second time."

"Yeah yeah, I know," Michaela said. "You and the Chief hadn't stood me down, I'd of ignited ground zero right there. But that guy pistol whipping Chase set my teeth on edge."

"Wait, some guy _hit_ Cordy?" Jesse said, his eyes narrowing.

'Kat and Chessie and the others nodded. "Saw it," 'Kat said. "And twisted her arm and made her yell."

"_I'm_ going to kill him," Jesse said, scowling.

"No, you're not, Jess," Aura said, shaking her head. "Let the Captain here do it. Or else _Xander_ will when he's back on his feet."

"Speaking of, you'll be happy to know that Mr. Harris is expected to make a full recovery," Michaela said. "The surgeon said that his injuries were already healing better than they had any right to have been by the time he reached the OR. He claims to have no explanation for it."

"Thank Pooka Bell for that," Cap said, smiling. "She's pretty good as a battlefield medic – that magic thing that Colonel Brockhurst dislikes." Several heads among the scouts nodded vigorously.

"I'll have to remember to do that," Michaela said, looking around for the tiny pixie.

"It's not that I dislike magic, or the idea of it," Brockhurst said, "It's just that I find it a bit disconcerting to think about."

"Hmm... " Michael and Michelle Sheridan said, also looking around.

"Where exactly _is_ Pooka," Michael said.

"Oh? Huh," Benjy said. She and Misty began craning their heads around to look. "Probably mooching off plates. You know how she gets, Dad."

Misty nodded vigorously, looking around the room. Looking everywhere except in the direction or vicinity of Michael and Michelle Sheridan, as a matter of fact...

"Beverly Teresa Sheridan," Michael said, and Benjy's head whipped around to look at him, her already large eyes widening. "Where. Is. Pooka. Bell."

"Uh... Dad?"

"Beverly?"

"She, uh, followed Chief, uh, Captain Michaela, sir," Benjy said.

Misty slid down into her seat, trying to look inconspicuous. It didn't seem to be working, going by the gimlet eye Mrs. Sheridan was fixing upon her.

"Beverly," Michelle said. "You know that you were ordered in no uncertain terms _not_ to do that."

"Um, no ma'am, Colonel Mom," Chessie piped up. "Colonel Benjy said not to send me and Devila. Not say anything about Pook." Devila nodded enthusiastically, looking as innocent as possible.

Which, Michaela noted, wasn't very for a four foot eight inch demon girl...

"Chessie... " Michael said, sighing and shaking his head.

"Uh, oh, you're in trouble... " Jesse said, grinning. Aura nailed him under the short ribs with an elbow, and he subsided immediately.

"Dad, I only sent her to follow the Captain, nowhere else," Benjy said, looking wounded.

"She did, I heard her," Misty said, nodding.

"Umm... is her hearing really good by any chance?" Michaela said, starting to get a sick feeling. "As in, good enough to hear both ends of a cell phone conversation?"

Stephanie nodded. "She can generally hear her name and zip back to report in seconds or minutes, from a long way off. We've never been sure just how far, exactly."

"Long long way," 'Kat said.

Michaela shook her head, and then swore. It felt so good that she went on at length for several minutes, in English, Gaelic, Japanese, Cantonese, and Texan. By the end of it when she wore down finally, Michelle Sheridan was looking amused, the kids along with Aura and Jesse were looking awed, and both Brockhurst and Michael were looking impressed.

"Wow. I don't think I've ever heard a number of those words and phrases put together in quite those combinations before, ever," Sheridan said.

"Hell, Colonel," Brockhurst said, "I didn't even _understand_ three quarters of those words, or even know they existed, and I've done joint _naval_ ops."

"Don't try this at home," Michaela said, gravely. "I am a professional."

"I'm gathering that there was something in that phone conversation that causes you some concern, Michaela," Michelle said, studying her.

"You might say that, Michelle," Michaela said, her tone dry. "She would have heard me getting orders to the effect that I am _not_ to use standard 'ally in enemy hands' protocols for effecting Cordelia Chase's release from durance vile, but to rely upon legal maneuvers while Colonel Danvers works on it from her end."

"I'm afraid to ask, but... " Michael said, "What are 'in enemy hands' protocols, if I'm considered to have a need to know?"

"Knowing the Chief Captain here," Brockhurst said, "They're something along the lines of: level Cordelia's prison and everyone in it _except_ for Miss Chase, and then piss on the burnt spot. Pardon my French."

"By this point," Michelle said, dryly, "I think the kid's tender ears are all acclimated to French."

"Hell, as one of my only two actual military allies at the moment, Colonel," Michaela said, "You have all the need to know that you require." She sighed, and added, "And, Brockhurst is not far from wrong. We tend to take having our people taken prisoner very badly. Usually because the type of things that we deal with do truly nasty things to people in their hands. Or talons. Or tentacles."

"So... Pooka might have decided to go look for Cordelia on her own," Jesse said, exchanging looks with Aura.

"Uh huh. And she may have determined to follow Umbridge and his men to see if they would lead her there," Michaela said.

"Oh, crap," Benjy said, starting to look alarmed.

"She would have done it on her own initiative, then," Stephanie said.

"Uh oh," 'Kat said, exchanging looks with Chessie and Devila, and getting nods back.

"I take it that this is bad?" Brockhurst said, looking at them.

"For certain values of bad, depending, sir," Stephanie said. "Pooka Bell's initiative tends to be very effective, generally."

"In the way that a Kamikaze pilot is effective, yeah. She takes after the First Sarge here in that," Misty said. Benjy slid down lower in her seat. "Hey, I still remember the sound the two Lost Boy pixies made when they missed that last curve. Ouch."

"Benjy, can you call her back?" Aura said, looking at her with both curiosity and sympathy.

"Yes, ma'am," Benjy said. "Maybe." She took a deep breath and said, "Pook!"

"That's all it takes?" Brockhurst said, his eyes widening.

"If she's in range to hear it, yes," Stephanie said, nodding.

"Or listening," Misty said.

Chessie snorted at that, and "Pook _always_ listens to First Sergeant Benjy," 'Kat said.

"_Pook! _Report, Private!" Benjy said, a bit sharper. Several minutes went by.

"Out of range maybe," Stephanie said.

"Or Pooka went off the Rez," Devila said. Her ears flattened against the sides of her head at the glares that received, and she shrugged. "Always first time."

"Great." Michaela went into another, longer burst of profanity this time, throwing in odds and ends of Vietnamese, Farsi, and border Spanish. When she wound down again, she sighed and shook her head. "Lesson the one, kids. This is not a game. We are not playing. These people are dangerous, and they make a specialty of capturing people like you and taking you apart to see what makes you tick."

'Kat, Chessie, and Devila slid down into their seats, their eyes wide.

"Ma'am," Misty said, her eyes clear. "All due respect, but we are not playing, either. We _don't_ leave our people behind. _Ever_. And Cordelia Chase is now one of ours. Just like Tech-sergeant Xander is one of ours."

"She's right, ma'am," Stephanie said. "We've learned that bad things come from doing that."

"Then we'd better learn how to do it right and proper," Michaela said, grimly. "With orders, backup, planning, and with command knowing what's going on."

"Just the way that Captain Leg here does," Brockhurst said.

"Oh, do shut up, Colonel Chair Farce, sir," Michaela said, reddening slowly. "You've been waiting all night to make that pointed observation, haven't you."

"Why yes, I have, as a matter of fact."

* * *

_Monday, November 3, 1997: __Sunnydale MHMR__, Topanga Street, Sunnydale city limits, Morning 6:50am –_

Unable to stretch properly, Cordelia Chase did her best to work her shoulders and release at least some of the tension and ache in them. Damned restraints. What did they think, she was going to chew through her wrists or attack some six foot plus two hundred pound orderly? Bare handed? What... all five seven and a half and one hundred and twenty pounds of her?

Ok, one twenty-seven. But she'd been meaning to get rid of those last seven...

Oh, yeah. Naked, emotionally and physically exhausted, unarmed, and with a freshly dressed bullet hole through her leg. _Thoroughly_ dangerous woman here right now.

You bet.

_Just_ let me get my hands on one of those pistols, though...

She'd seen a clock _once_, just once, after she'd arrived here. Five thirty-five. Meaning it had taken nearly forty minutes to drive here from the salvage yard in the bitch Walsh's Mercedes. After that...

Apparently orderlies and nurses had had orders to remove clocks from anywhere she was taken. She'd seen them do it once.

And then...

First, the humiliating, degrading and thorough body and strip search, complete with cavity probe. By a _male_ goon, one of Walsh's supposed DIA guys. Smirking and obviously enjoying himself.

Then the thorough, ice cold freaking shower. With cheap, industrial, institutional soap and shampoo. Under guard and under observation. Under _male_ guard and observation, again. And then with a cheap, thin, scratchy motel type towel to kind of dry off with.

She was pretty sure she'd seen the fat male orderly thug guarding her playing pocket pool with himself the whole time. _And_ the male Agent, at times.

Probably all the sex that they ever got.

She'd made the mistake of mentioning that, and had gotten hit again. In the diaphragm, this time, where it wouldn't leave a mark. He hadn't given her time to recover her breath, just grabbed her by the arms and hauled her off half dried, hair still tangled and dripping at the ends.

To medical. What a joke...

Damned good thing that tiny pixie had showed up after the big, armed helicopter had swirled off to find a landing spot. And, boy, had that ever been a shock...

Then again, vampires? Demons? Invisible girls? Undead franken-jocks? Reptile gods? Life sucking mummy girls? Terminators?

Why _shouldn't_ there be seven inch plus tall, green glowing pixies named Private Pooka Bell?

At least the cute little thing had healed her leg up a bit for her. Even if that had involved, eww, crapping pixie dust all over it.

Hey. Whatever worked, at this point.

Good thing, too. Or she might have bled out waiting for them to get around to figuring out who got to haul her away, Bitch Walsh, Stein, or the hot looking Chief Warrant Officer and her salty goodness Air Force Colonel. Wished it'd been Hot Soldier Girl that won the toss.

Figures that it would be Bitch Walsh.

Gods... please, Xander, be alive. Please be alive.

_Finally_, they'd examined her leg while she shivered and shook strapped to the exam table, and dressed it and her other, more minor scratches and injuries.

She wanted her damned rifle. Or her Beretta shotgun. And her hands free.

At least Bitch Walsh and her goons didn't seem to realize that it was _Cordelia_ that had blasted a heavy twelve gauge slug through Captain Finn's chest. She wished now that she'd shot him in the nuts, instead.

Several times, she'd heard a couple of the agents talking, bitching really, about some bitch named Barkley and how many agents she'd killed in some base somewhere. Good. Pity she hadn't killed them all. She vaguely remembered Cheng mentioning the name, she thought. They seemed to think that Buckley had probably done for Finn, or maybe Rory.

She'd heard them mentioning the name Creed a couple of times, too. Apparently, he'd ripped his way through a bunch of Walsh's goons as well. Good for him. She vaguely, also, remembered something about Aura saying that name on the phone several weeks ago. Days. Day. Whatever.

Please, Xander, be alive. Please be alive.

If Xander had died before they finally got him to the ER, Walsh was going to die slowly, at Cordelia's hands. Always assuming the tough, dangerous Warrant Officer didn't get her first.

Might be a toss up. There had been raw, ice cold murder in Michaela Reeves' eyes behind that rifle scope.

And, briefly, absolute terror in Call-me-Maggie Walsh's.

Something to savor.

Cordelia let her gaze go sideways to the two agents guarding – and regarding – her nude, strapped down body. She snorted in derision, not bothering to muffle it.

Take a picture, guys. It'll last longer. Give you something to jerk off to, also.

And, hey. Go ahead and think that I'm a helpless, harmless girl now that you took away my rifle, my pistol, my Master Sergeant, and my boyfriend. I'll encourage you.

It'll make it easier, eventually.

Gods... please, Xander, be alive. _Please_ be alive.

* * *

"I really have to protest this treatment of the patient, Dr. Walsh," Dr. Robert Hartley said.

Damned psychologists. Not even a real doctor. Dr. Margaret Walsh shook her head, and said, "By all means. Do."

Hartley sighed, sounding frustrated. "You are violating every single _precept_ of mental health patient care, Doctor. As well as the patient's civil rights. Not to mention basic human decency." He glanced through the two way mirror into the medical clinic, and averted his gaze hastily. "At least give her some clothing. And put female orderlies on, if she needs to be guarded."

"Subject Chase is a very dangerous young woman, Dr. Hartley," Margaret Walsh said, patiently. "Ask any number of members of the Sunnydale County Sheriff's Department and the California Highway Patrol – she was certainly the death of a number of them last night. She remains guarded at all times when she's not in a secure room. And she will be clothed. _When_ she's placed _in_ a secure room. Not before."

Hartley glared at her.

"Then, Doctor, perhaps she should be locked in a cell at the County Jail, awaiting arraignment," he said.

"She won't stand trial, ever. With her delusions? Please, Doctor, you heard her interview," Walsh said.

"I did. And I know that she's no more delusional than you are. Less, actually," Hartley said, snorting.

"Oh? And just what do you mean by that, Doctor?" Walsh said. She cocked her head, examining him curiously.

"That I saw that thing at the SPD station, and the aftermath," Hartley said, his voice exaggeratedly patient. "As did you. You know as well as I do that whatever else she and Alexander Harris might be, delusional on that particular topic, they are not."

Interesting, Walsh thought. Apparently, Hartley wasn't subject to the willful blindness and rationalization that so many others in this town were. That might have to be dealt with.

Not that anyone would ever believe him, of course.

"That wasn't precisely the part of your statement that my question was regarding, Dr. Hartley," Walsh said.

"I know," Hartley said, smiling thinly. "Sooner or later, you will have to produce Cordelia Chase for a competency hearing before an actual judge. And counsel will want to have an independent evaluation of her made by one of their medical experts, a request that you will _have_ to grant."

"Perhaps," Walsh said, inclining her head. "We shall certainly see."

"Oh, it will happen. You can't keep a minor child involuntarily committed indefinitely, not without a legal guardian's consent, I believe. Or a very stringent judge's order." Hartley studied her curiously, and then the small, thin smile broadened slightly. "Oh, wait. You really _do_ have no idea who you have incarcerated here, do you, now."

Walsh frowned. There _was_ something... what? Hrmm. Probably not important, or else she'd remember it. She tossed her head, a bit irritably.

"I'm quite certain that you are wrong about the first, Dr. Hartley," Walsh said, finally. "And I'm equally certain that you'll inform me on the second, and take pleasure in relishing the error of my ways, as you see them."

"Oh, definitely on the pleasure part, Dr. Walsh. Just as I'll take great pleasure in watching you stripped of your license to practice in the state of California," Hartley said. "Let's see. Cordelia Desiree Chase. Daughter of Randall and Teresa Chase, currently deceased. _Granddaughter_ of William Randolph Chase the Second."

"And I suppose that all of that should mean something to me?" Walsh raised her eyebrows. She did vaguely remember that now.

"It should. It will by the time that William Randolph and his battery of extremely expensive and high powered attorneys get finished with you," Hartley said. "And his connections – old friends, actually – in the State Legislature and the Senate. See, I do my research."

"I'm pleased for you. That is an admirable trait, Doctor," Walsh said. She smirked at him, and added, "And I'm afraid you over estimate the power of the elder Mr. Chase's money, lawyers, and connections here. I have the connections myself, including the Federal judge who signed my warrants and the commitment papers. And on the Senate, and in the Department of Defense, all of whom are highly interested in the research that I'm engaged in. And further," she leaned forward, smiling, "This hospital has lawyers as well. Perhaps you've heard of them. Wolfram and Hart?"

"No. But I have no doubt that I will before this is over," Hartley said, still smiling tightly. "As I'll be the medical expert for the opposing counsel, or at least one of them."

Walsh's smile froze briefly, but she merely nodded at him. "Your prerogative, Doctor," she said, her voice cold. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have duties to attend to, elsewhere."

"Of course, Doctor," Hartley said. "But at least have the girl moved to the secure room you mentioned, and some clothing given to her. If _you_ won't, then I certainly will."

Standing, he began moving to the door of the examination room and medical bay. Walsh nodded, and the agent by the door, Broadhead, moved to intercept and block his way.

Hartley turned back to her, glaring. "I'm going to speak to the director of the clinic here, about your treatment of the patient, and your violations of medical ethics."

"By all means, Dr. Hartley," Walsh said. "But I believe that you'll find that Director Addison is far more interested in the rather massive federal grant monies that he receives, than he is in the hysterical protestations of one of his consulting psychologists. After all, _consultants_ can be purchased for a dime a dozen."

Hartley rolled his eyes slightly, sighing. "That would stand to reason, I suppose."

She smiled at him, equally thinly. "Good day, Doctor. And don't bother to invite yourself to any of Subject Chase's future sessions. You won't be welcome." Jerking her head to the outer door, she said, "Broadhead? Show Dr. Hartley his way out and point him toward Director Addison's office, please."

Hartley nodded to her, and turned. "Don't bother. I believe I can still find my own way there."

Definitely a problem to attend to. She'd have to speak with Umbridge about the good Doctor Hartley.

* * *

_Monday, November 3, 1997: __Sunnydale MHMR__, Old Salinas Hwy and Topanga Street, Sunnydale city limits, Morning __7__:__1__5__am –_

Reveling in the feeling of flight, and the view from way up here, Pooka Bell circled above the blocky military style vehicle as it pulled into the parking lot of the building below. She watched with interest as the men parked their contraption and headed inside, narrowing her eyes and sharpening her vision. Hrmm...

She could zip in past them, but there looked to be a double door down there, one, separated by a space, and then another. Be easy to get trapped, even for her.

She'd have to find another way in.

And, heya, at her size? And with fae magic? There were bound to be plenty.

An early riser of a red tailed hawk, circling so high it was a mere dot in the sky above, deciding that she looked close enough to snack size, stooped on her.

Pooka Bell heard the ripping of air through its wing feathers long before it even reached proper stooping speed. Pixie ears are acute.

She'd even heard Benjy's two calls for her, way out at the very limits of her range for that. And had ignored them: First Sergeant Major Benjy had _already_ given her her orders. And further, she had her_ own_.

The Irregulars did not leave their own behind. Not any more. First Scout 'Kat had said so.

Technically, Pooka had gone Off the Reservation at that point, whatever that meant, but... no matter. She was doing what the First Sergeant, Pooka's personal hero, had _meant_ as well as what she had _said_.

Lady Cordelia was Tech-Sergeant Xander's. That meant that Lady Cordelia was _theirs_. They were getting her _back_.

And that, was _that_.

When the red tail hit where she was, Pooka Bell was no longer there. No go, too slow. Pooka blew it a raspberry from fifty feet higher and forty over as it went by, and gave it an upraised middle finger.

Shrieking angrily, the hawk pulled out of its stoop before it went all _splat! _and spiraled upward, glaring at her.

Pooka could have raced it down ahead of it and _made_ it go _splat!_, but why?

It wasn't a bad guy. It was just doing what hawks did.

Oh-kay. Lady Cordelia was here, inside. She'd heard the men in the boxy military vehicle thing talking about it. That meant that _Pooka_ needed to be inside, eventually.

Hrmmm. Pooka Bell went back to spiraling over and around the sprawling human building down below, keeping one ear peeled for that hawk, or any others. This was an interesting challenge.

And, she could stand to fuel up. Everything was harder in the daytime... pixies were, by nature and by choice, night time fae. And, after healing Tech-Sergeant Xander, Lady Cordelia, and the other one up as much as she'd been able, Pooka was pooped out. And, ratz. Pizza Barn and all of the other pizza places weren't open for a long time yet. Have to wait, then raid. _Then_ move.

Huh. And, hrmm again. Allies would be helpful. She wondered...

Now that Private Scout Pooka Bell had demonstrated her primacy, several times over, she wondered if the two Losted Boys pixies would be interested in a truce and an alliance.

And then in a spot of raiding, followed by a spot of scouting and causing mischief and havoc.

Worth investigating.

Pooka swooped down close in and swept around the building at a leisurely ten miles per hour, paying close attention to windows, doors, vents, and other openings.

Ok. Now to go have a talk with some other pixies. Zooming up to near hawk circling level, giggling with ecstasy, Pooka Bell banked in a tight circle, found her bearings, and zoomed off at speed.

Straight for Adventure Lands Amusement Park, as the pixie flies.

Pooka Bell had a mission. Missions were _important_. 'Kat had said so.

* * *

_Monday, November 3, 1997: __South Marion Drive Sunnydale Medical Complex__, Sunnydale, Morning __7__:__3__0am –_

"You really need x-rays for that forearm. And everything thing else, as well," the dark complected doctor, who'd been introduced as Dr. Ramesh, said.

"Call out to Fort Halleck's medical, and they'll send 'em over," Michaela said. "Medics on site had a portable, and checked me over pretty thoroughly. Can't really take time to go to the x-ray lab. Can't really afford to take time to slow down at all, not right now."

"At some point, you will _fall_ down, whether you have time to or not," Ramesh said. "I have a portable here. I'll have a nurse and an orderly wheel it in. I must see what damage you've done or aggravated since your previous treatment."

"Ah, right," Michaela said, nodding. "Haven't exactly been kind to my busted parts lately. Have, or _had_ at least, a hairline fracture of the forearm bone, one of 'em, a sprained and bruised left wrist, and a wrenched left shoulder. Plus, a wrenched ankle and right knee."

"Ah. How did you manage such an interesting assortment of injuries, may I ask?"

"Crash landed in a helo after a bad guy blew it out of the air with a SMAW," Michaela said. "The skull bump was my own damned fault: I popped the canopy and tried to climb out before I was fully conscious again."

"Ah," Ramesh said again. "Well, whether you have or haven't aggravated the fracture, it will need to be encased in a permanent cast rather than that temporary."

"Do whatcha gotta do, Doc. Just do _not_ impair my ability to flex and use my left hand," Michaela said. "Rate things are going, I need it to shoot with. And _nothing_ to knock me out or dull my senses. I'll deal with the pain, if needed."

"Seems to be that kind of weekend, yes. I'll do my best," Ramesh said, agreeably. Standing and crossing to the examination room door, he opened it, called a nurse over, and instructed her to get the portable x-ray. Then he came back, sat, and began to cut away the temporary cast.

He closed the door securely, before turning away, Michaela noticed.

After a bit, he said, almost musingly, "You know. Even before Halloween, some of us have noticed over the past year that Alexander Harris, Buffy Summers, Willow Rosenberg, and Cordelia Chase have come in here with some interesting injuries on occasion. And it didn't completely go without notice that on Halloween night, Aura Breckenridge fought and overcame a gang member on PCP in the waiting room and chapel. As well, all of us have seen the FYI footage of Miss Breckenridge, Willow Rosenberg, and that Kendra girl fighting those gang members and that beast man. And the other footage." He glanced up, "Do you understand where I might be going with this?"

"I'm not sure, Doctor Ramesh," Michaela said, slowly. "You may have to spell it out. I'm kind of slow some days."

"Somehow, I doubt that," Ramesh said, smiling slightly. "Sunnydale General and the Marion Medical Complex has the best trauma care facility in this end of southern California. Perhaps in all of California, period. Our emergency room and trauma surgeons handled the survivors of that shooting incident on the Bronze, Friday night. And we, sometimes second hand through our EMT staff, heard the accounts of what happened there from the victims. The conscious and semi-conscious ones at least."

"I'll bet those were interesting," Michaela said, nodding.

"Quite. I could tell you some tales," Ramesh said, nodding back. "However, I'll merely state that slowly, it has become apparent to some few of us, that there are people in this town who do _not_ ignore or look away from what goes on in the night out there. Some of them even do something about what they see. Sadly, they mostly seem to be our very youngest."

"That's usually the way of it," Michaela said. "The young fight the wars and do the dying."

"It shouldn't be that way. It shames me that my involvement is limited to attempting to patch up _teenagers_ who should _not_ be fighting things like that beast man," Ramesh said, shaking his head. "However, I am not a hero, not a soldier, and not a warrior. I do what I can, then."

"Hey, _someone_ has to patch us up and get us back on the front lines, Doc," Michaela said.

Ramesh nodded. "Possibly. Be that as it may, it should be known that there are some who appreciate what you are trying to do here. _We_ consider Alexander Harris, Buffy Summers, Kendra, Aura Breckenridge, Jonathan Levinson, Cordelia Chase, and Miss Rosenberg to be _heroes_. Especially after this weekend. I don't _care_ what the CHP, Sunnydale County, and all of the Feds in the western U.S. have to say about them."

Feeling oddly touched, Michaela nodded. "Hell, I can go along with that. I'm kind of impressed with those kids myself."

Nodding, the doctor stood as there was a rap on the examination room door. "Let's get you patched up, then. It promises to be that kind of week as well."

"Yup. Sure does," Michaela said. "And hey, with you and Chief Stein in my corner, I got 'em all half whooped."

* * *

_Monday, November 3, 1997: __Sunnydale MHMR__, Topanga Street, Sunnydale city limits, Morning 8:50am –_

"So, where is the nice Dr. Hartley, Walsh?" Cordelia asked. She continued combing out her hair with her fingers as best as she could, considering that there were places that the cuffs wouldn't let her reach.

"Dr. Hartley is no longer permitted access to your case, Miss Chase," Dr. Maggie Walsh said, smirking at her. "And it is _Doctor_ Walsh, please. Let us at least attempt to keep this on a professional basis."

"To-may-toe, to-mah-toe," Cordelia said, tossing her head and flipping a few stragglers away from her eyes. "When I find myself actually dealing with professionals, I will."

"As you wish," Walsh said. She looked down at her folders, open on the table in front of her.

"Heh. Westley you are not," Cordelia said.

Walsh gave her a curious look, with a raised eyebrow and an expectant expression.

"Sigh. The Princess Bride? Please don't tell me you're illiterate as well as stupid," Cordelia said.

"Reading lurid fiction for pleasure is not one of my vices, I'm afraid," Walsh stated. "And insulting me gains you absolutely nothing. I'm rather impervious to the insults of psychiatric subjects. It's a required job skill."

"You have yet to see me fully in top form, Walsh," Cordelia said, smirking back at her.

"I've seen a considerable amount of you, so far," Walsh said. "Although, you are probably correct. Not nearly your very best moments to date."

Bitch.

And the 'considerable amount' was literal, too, considering that they still hadn't given her any clothing. Unless you counted handcuffs or restraints, which, while those could be entertaining with the right partner, _really_ didn't qualify as formal ensemble.

Without appearing to look over directly, Cordelia noted the 'Agent' and the uniformed orderly by the door roving their eyes over her tits.

Get a good eyeful, boys. You too, bitch. You _do_ look like the type, Call-me-Maggie. Not that there's anything _wrong_ with that, you understand. But, still, go rent a lesbian porn vid, finger fuck yourself to your black little heart's content, and get me some fucking clothes.

And a nice gun while you're at it. I _promise_ I won't hurt anyone, much.

Just kill hell out of them.

Cordelia reflected that she probably made a slight miscalculation in letting her inner lahini out by putting a twelve gauge slug through Captain American Way Finn. The bitch wolf just didn't want to go back on her leash, now.

That's ok, though. She had the feeling she was going to continue needing that inner she wolf in order to survive this.

Cordelia had had a long time to consider things, strapped naked to that examination table in the medical clinic. Bitch Maggie fucking Walsh wanted to grind her down, and break her. That was the only thing that made sense.

First, there'd been the long period of being strapped down naked after her initial, uh, processing and intake, as they'd called it, followed by her medical treatment. Then being unstrapped, placed in cuffs, and given another groping, uh, search by the male agent and the orderly.

Oh, yeah. Like they figured she was going to unstrap herself, get a hold of a scalpel or something, hide it up her ass or her twat, and then strap herself back down. Right. You bet.

It was all designed for the humiliation.

Just like this little naked interview session.

Well, gee, newsflash for you, Doctor Director Margaret Call-me-Maggie fucking Walsh.

Cordelia Desiree Chase doesn't break easily. If vampires, demons, grave robbers, the Hellmouth Beast, Larry-bot the Terminator, and seeing her date and Aphrodesia and a bunch of other people killed in front of her, and looking down at the bodies of her dead parents and maid couldn't do it, _you_ don't have a prayer.

Of course, that might not stop her from _acting_ broken, if and when she decided that that might be useful. But for now...

"So. Do I get some clothing? Or am I Miss Nude Naked Exhibit from now on?" Cordelia said.

"Yes. You will receive clothing, once this session is concluded and you are transferred to a secure room," Walsh said, still reading her papers. Or maybe Cordelia's papers.

"Ah." Yawning, Cordelia stretched, raising her arms above her head and wriggling in the cold, vinyl seat in a vain attempt to make her butt comfortable. She smirked at the way the upper torso movement riveted the attention of the agent and the orderly. Geeze. Men. All of them such boys. "I see."

She kept her eyes riveted on Walsh, only viewing the two door guards via peripheral vision. Watch the main enemy.

"Do you?" Walsh's eye flickered up, her gaze clinical and disinterested.

"Why, yes," Cordelia said. She smiled lasciviously, and ran her tongue slowly across her lip. "So, after a _session_, do you head back to your office and finger yourself off? Or do you have one of those big vibrators with the ribs and bumps?" She saw Walsh's back stiffen when the orderly snickered audibly by the doorway. "Oh, and do you video tape all of this for your 'agents' and orderlies to jerk off to? Or do they get to go to your office and watch you make yourself cum?"

"Hey," the agent type said, warningly. He straightened and stiffened at his post. Well, stiffened his posture. It was obvious he was already stiff elsewhere. Eww. "Watch your mouth."

"Why? You're watching it enough for both of us. Oh, wait... those aren't my lips... " Cordelia said. She tossed her hair again, and added, "So, did you let your guys rape Barkley's corpse when they were done killing her? They do seem the type."

"Hey!" Mr. Fake DIA goon uncoiled from the wall, and started over to them.

Walsh jerked her head around, and said, "Umbridge. Stand. Down." Sighing, she added, "Don't let her get to you."

Glaring at her, Agent Umbridge – and hey, nice to have a name – went back to his perch.

"Not possible for him to not," Cordelia said. Of course not. Umbridge wasn't Xander Harris, and _he_ couldn't take her best shots, roll with them, and sally back in kind. "I'll bet y_ou_ watched, too. You seem to be that type, also."

Walsh's head snapped up a bit too abruptly, and a very faint flush appeared. Ooh. Struck a nerve. Noted and marked.

"You seem to think that you are very funny," Walsh said, recovering her clinical detachment very quickly. "You are aware that you are being recorded, correct?"

"Video too, I hope," Cordelia said, smiling brightly. "It should make wonderful listening, and _viewing_, at my hearing."

"It very possibly would," Walsh said, nodding.

"Oh?" Cordelia raised an eyebrow.

Walsh merely smiled. Instead of responding to that, she said, "Oddly, I was given the impression that you were a debutante and a wealthy daughter from a very upper class family. Or at least a _nouveau riche _one, who are always even more prone to adopting refined airs than the actual gentility. And yet... you seem to be extremely vulgar and common."

Interesting. No hearing, huh? Implication was, at least.

"We're not _nouveau riche, _Maggie," Cordelia said, her voice all syrupy sweet. "My family has had money since _before_ my very distant great grandparent made his _second_ fortune sailing with Jacques LaVelle in the mid seventeen hundreds."

"Well, good to know then," Dr. Walsh said, nodding. "Apparently, he also adopted the boorish manner of his, ah, privateer associates. And then passed them along to his descendents."

The faux DIA Agent, Umbridge, snickered over by the door. Enjoying hearing Walsh take down the smart mouth rich bitch a peg with a bit of her own medicine, no doubt...

Silly boy.

Call me Maggie is out of her weight class. And Morgan Winslow Chase and Jacques Julian LaVelle would have eaten you and all of your fellow agents and toy soldiers for breakfast, and used your bones to pick their teeth with.

And _then_ have gone on to sack and scuttle a couple of British East Indiamen before lunch, once their appetites had been properly whetted.

Cordelia _Persephone_ Chase and Kid Harris would have merely shot all of you out of hand.

The thousand watt Pepsodent smile that spread across Cordelia's lips was more a baring of teeth than an actual smile. Predator's teeth. It didn't even remotely touch her eyes, no more than it ever had during a beauty contest or sitting on a float in some parade or festival.

"I seem to have lost all of my refinement when you let my boyfriend lay there bleeding out on a gurney, blocking those Army medics from air lifting him out," Cordelia said, her tone pleasant and even. "And left my friend and Master Sergeant bleeding out inside that helicopter."

Yeah. Stripped away all of the carefully trained in refinement and faux gentility and left behind a core of something that even Cordelia hadn't really been aware was down there below it.

Her ancestors and Xander's: pirates, privateers, gunfighters, horse thieves, land barons, rail barons, explorers, industry moguls, and soldiers of fortune and mercenaries one and all, would have recognized it _instantly_.

Oh well. Cordelia Chase's thin veneer of civilization had always been merely skin deep, anyway. Just ask Xander.

Walsh nodded. "I'm given to understand that the former expired on the operating table this morning at, ah," she looked at her notes, "Six seventeen AM this morning. Due to complications from injuries and blood loss."

It was like a blow to the solar plexus, only a thousand times worse.

Cordelia got her breath back, slowly, and her heart restarted. Ok. Don't play with this woman. She plays hardball. Oh, wait. Never mind. This isn't a game, and we are not playing. Sorry, lost my copy of the script for a moment.

Back on track now.

"You are lying," Cordelia said, her eyes narrowing. "Definitely."

"Oh? Am I?" Walsh raised her eyebrows, her clinical detached expression securely in place. Taking notes behind those reptilian eyes, damn her. "See for yourself."

Walsh turned the uppermost, slenderest folder around, and slid it across the interview table. Cordelia pulled it to her with her cuffed hands, reading it carefully, her face as expressionless as stone.

Alexander LaVelle Harris. Pronounced dead on operating table at 6:17:05 AM. Ridiculous level of precision, huh? Cause of death. Cardiac arrest due to blood loss from injuries and accumulated trauma. List of assorted traumas and damages. My, that explosion and the shrapnel did do a number on him, if this was accurate. Attempts at resuscitation unsuccessful.

Cordelia shrugged, and shoved the folder back across, resisting the impulse to crumple the medical sheet.

"Anyone can print out a medical document. And even make it look authentic," Cordelia said. "And psychiatrists _are_ medical doctors. You would know how."

"Interesting," Walsh said. "Your delusional state even extends to viewing and dismissing actual evidence that contraindicates it."

"Xander isn't dead, and that document is a lie," Cordelia stated, her voice flat and without compromise. "I would know."

"I'm certain you would."

"I would." Cordelia cocked her head, studying her adversary intently. "Xander will recover. It may take him a bit," but not as long as you think, possibly – Xander's _always_ healed a bit faster than normal, especially lately – "And then he will come for me. He and Cheng. And then you will die."

"It won't happen, I can assure you," Walsh said, smiling at her.

"It will. And if not? Chief Michaela will." Cordelia shrugged. "And... You _will_ have to produce me for a court hearing at some point. My grandfather will see to that. Or his attorneys will, at least."

"I fear that you are delusional in that respect also," Walsh stated, her eyes watching Cordelia intently. "Just as you are in your firm, and rather detailed, belief that an unstoppable Terminator from the movie universe came after you with homicidal intent, and that your young paramour was sent back from the future to stop it. A truly fascinating construct in its apparent verisimilitude and the un-shakeability of your fixation upon it."

"I am not delusional, not on any of that. You, however, may be," Cordelia said. "No. You are not. You saw the thing. Paul Stein saw it. Dr. Hartley saw it. Master Sergeant Cheng saw it. So did a number of other people. Your people recovered the parts. And, Xander is not dead. He will be coming for me. And he will kill you and a number of your agents for this."

"Do you actually believe that _any_ of them will be believed, if they prove to indeed share your delusional world construct, and they attempt to tell anyone about it?" Walsh snorted.

"I am not delusional. Nor are you," Cordelia said. "You are psychotic and probably a sociopath, but delusional you are not."

"Fascinating. Your diction improves and your vocabulary increases, in direct proportion to the amount that your vapid, California socialite personae drops away," Walsh said, her eyebrows rising. "Were you aware of this?"

"Why yes, I was," Cordelia said. "My personae, as you call it, drops away in direct proportion to the amount that I am annoyed or provoked."

"Ah. Then you are admitting that I am succeeding in angering you," Walsh said. "I was beginning to wonder if you had emotional responses."

Oh, boy do I have emotions, Bitch. You haven't even begun to see them.

And you won't live to.

"Nope. _You_ are not angering me," Cordelia said, smiling sweetly. "By the way. Is it possible to die of constipation? I'm becoming rather concerned by how full of shit you seem to be."

The orderly snickered again, and Walsh stiffened slightly, again. Score.

"Again, you seem to find yourself amusing," Walsh said. "I can assure you, no one else does. But please, do continue."

"Oh? Is that a challenge?" Cordelia asked, raising an eyebrow. "Because, I haven't yet let myself go. In fact, I was tempted to also call you a cunt, and then I realized that you lack both the depth _and_ the warmth."

The snicker by the door was louder this time. And the glare across the doorway from Agent Umbridge was longer and more intense.

Walsh's eyes narrowed, and then she reached out deliberately and snapped off her recorder. Turning in her seat, she motioned to Agent Umbridge, who nodded, opened the door, and stuck his head out to speak quietly to someone outside. He drew back in and closed it, nodding.

"Let's go off the record here, shall we?" Walsh said, folding her arms on the table and leaning forward.

"On, off, I don't care," Cordelia said. She couldn't fold her arms, so she placed her forearms flat on the table, clasped her hands, and leaned forward on her elbows and let her eyes widen. "So, what _did_ you wish to talk about."

Hey, the kid gloves are off now, huh? And maybe, just maybe, some real and no bullshit information now.

"You do seem to be delusional on several points, albeit not on the ones that are going on record," Walsh said. "Yes, I am aware that your Terminator is not a delusion. And that would mean that your young paramour's delusions are not, either, and he is what he says that he was."

"Oh?"

Are? Is? Interesting choice of words, doc...

"Yes, oh," Walsh said. "I am a Doctor of Psychiatry. However, I am also the Director of a research project into future weapons technologies, and into bioenhancement techniques and modifications. Therefore, no. There _will_ be no hearing for you. You are in my custody to stay for as long as I deem it necessary. Your Master Chief Warrant Officer Michaela Reeves or whatever she is will not be securing your release. She, and her secretive and very specialized and nonexistent group will simply not be allowed to. Extremely highly placed and powerful people and interests who are very interested in my program, and my results, will see to that. If they attempt to do so, they will cease to exist as a functioning entity. Do you understand all of this?"

Perfectly, bitch. _My_ reading and comprehension skills are top notch. And you are also the bitch that creates Skynet, but I'm not going to bother warning you of that.

"I understand perfectly, Doctor Bitch," Cordelia said aloud. "I understand now just exactly which of the two of us is suffering from massive delusions."

"If you assume it to be me, you are badly mistaken," Walsh said, smirking. "Further, if your grandfather, Dr. Hartley, Chief Stein, or anyone else attempts to secure your release and actually does manage to become a problem, they will simply be removed from the equation. Is that understood?"

"Perfectly."

Here you go, have a bigger shovel. I'm enjoying watching you did your own grave.

Walsh let the smirk turn into a full blown malevolent smile. It didn't touch her eyes any more than any of Cordelia's had, earlier. "And finally, I do hope that your paramour comes for you. He won't make it far. And I would dearly enjoy speaking with him at length also, using whatever means of persuasion are necessary."

_Yes! _Xander _is_ alive. Oh, thank you gods, _all_ of you. I'd burn an offering to that Janus character if I had one and could. Thank you, thank you... _thank_ you. Yes!

"I knew you were lying," Cordelia said. She tilted her head, studying the other woman again carefully. "You know, you're really not as good at this as you seem to think you are. It's a problem a lot of geniuses have, of being so smart that they're stupid."

Walsh's smile slipped just a bit. Score! "Oh? Is that so."

"Why, yes," Cordelia said, nodding. "I first noticed it in Willow when we were seven. It makes for easy manipulation once one recognizes it in someone. Welcome to the big leagues, Doctor Bitch."

The smile slipped just a tiny bit more on Walsh's face, and her eyes went colder. "_You_, young woman, have been in the big leagues since you arrived in my hands."

"Bitch, I've _been_ the big leagues since I was six fucking years old. Welcome, sister, we've been expecting you." Cordelia leaned forward just a bit more, and her smile went absolutely malevolent. "Now, let _me_ read _you _a few home truths. You cannot break me. You cannot bend me. And you can not beat me," she said. "All you can do, eventually, is kill me. If Xander can't come for me, and Michaela won't be allowed to, then I'll just have to rescue myself." Cordelia's eyes narrowed, and she added, "And then I will deal with you personally, just as I did the Larry-bot. Now, turn the fucking recorders back on whenever you want, and let's play."

_Lahini. _The meat is near to the bone, but not near enough yet.

"We will," Walsh said. "I suddenly find myself extremely intrigued. However," she reached over and replaced the tape in her table recorder with another one, "We'll do it without the official recordings."

"As you wish," Cordelia said, nodding. "Just keep in mind: _I_, am _not_ left handed."

"Whatever that means," Walsh said, all business now and unsmiling. "Now, tell me about this Terminator of yours... "

Fucking illiterate bitch.

"Certainly, Doctor," Cordelia said. "May I have my hand puppets and crayons back so I can put it in terms you can understand?"

* * *

.


	6. Interlude I

**Interlude I: Between the Cracks They Left Behind...**

* * *

_Thursday, November 3, 2033; Groom Lake Complex (beneath Dreamland), Las Vegas, Nevada; Night 8:23pm –_

Field Marshall, General of the Armies, and Commander of Tech-comm Morgan Chase-Harris suppressed a yawn, squashing an impulse to rub his grainy eyes with a massive effort of will. It took an almost equally massive effort of willpower to force himself to focus on what Commander Seven and Doctor Mears were saying.

Possibly, just possibly, mind you, it might be his body's way of trying to tell him that he drastically needed sleep.

Nah...

The deeply buried inner smartass at the back of his mind blew a caustic raspberry at that notion.

Just because he'd been awake, on his feet, and on the go for well over seventy-two hours by now since before Dwayne Hicks' temporal jump was no reason for him to be _tired_. Really, now.

Human weakness. And human weakness could be banished and surmounted by an exertion of human will.

Mom and dad had never let mere human weakness get in the way of them doing what was needed.

'_Suuuurrrreee they didn't, schmuck,_' a sarcastic voice in the back of his head drawled. It sounded suspiciously like his half brother Kyle... '_And of _course _mom and dad would want you driving yourself halfway to death and trying to run a military campaign while you're dead on your feet. Snort. Pull the other one_–it_ gives __cappuccino._'

Heh. All he needed was a sharp dope slap upside the back of his head to go along with the voice, and he'd be looking over his shoulder for a smirking Kyle. Which _that _just wasn't going to happen...

"General? Morgan?"

Seven's sultry voice and puzzled tone brought him snapping up alertly from his half daze to find both her and Warren giving him quizzical looks. Okay, half alertly.

"Yes?" Morgan blinked at Seven even as his mind frantically replayed the last few minutes of conversation on automatic reflex. He forced himself to focus on the chronosphere console and the computer displays hooked up to the monitoring devices around it, commanding his face not to flush through sheer force of will.

Sheer force of will was proving inadequate, dammit.

"We're thinking you zoned out on us there for a minute, Morg," Warren said in a tone of exquisite dryness. Lieutenant Tech-Commander and General Wendie Sanders, his aunt and 3IC, was very carefully hiding an incipient grin twitching at the corners of her lips.

Sighing internally, Morgan forced himself to _not_ look at his aunt. While he dearly loved Aunt Wendie, the resemblance to his mother was far _too_ close for his comfort zone sometimes.

The dancing amusement behind those hazel eyes was _beyond_ too close to the expression he figured Cordelia Chase-Harris would be wearing about now, only _Wendie_ wouldn't favor him with an exasperated dope slap. Probably. Not in public, anyway.

_Mom_ had never let the preservation of their dignities stand in the way of a quick attitude adjustment for her husband or son, public or private. And even after ten years, Morgan would give damned near anything short of what was left of the world to hear that affectionately exasperated huff and feel that light _whap_ to the back of his head once again...

"Nonsense," Morgan said, letting a half smile he didn't remotely feel slide across his lips, "I was just thinking through the ramifications. Seven was just stating that she'd completed the analysis of the last set of diagnostics and correlated them with your readings and has come to the conclusion that while the Backstep appears to not have functioned precisely the way we'd anticipated, there are no, count 'em, zero valid reasons to link that with Commander Reese's collapse. Despite the coincidental timing."

A faint twitch that might possibly have been a ghost of a smile touched Seven's lips, and she exchanged sidelong glances with her husband.

"Of course, General Chase-Harris," she said, and her completely devoid of inflection tone of voice still somehow managed to convey a mixture of exasperation, affection, and epic sarcasm. "And if it were not for the fact that I was the one who taught you that mental exercise, I might possibly be completely taken in."

"What she said," Warren stated, smirking openly.

"Well... damn," Morgan said, sighing. An expression of honest affection and exasperation touched his own features, moving into his eyes as he regarded the pair of scientists. "Neither Kyle or me ever _could _fool you, Aunt Seven."

"An extremely implausible endeavor, considering the length of our association, Morgan," Seven stated, smiling slightly. "Considering as well the acuity of my observational skills, coupled with that length of acquaintance, the probability of your being able to do so continues to approach negative percentages."

"Seven taught you a good sized chunk of everything you know, Morg," Wendie said, shaking her head.

"But she _didn't _teach me everything _she _knows," Morgan said, giving up. Sighing, he rubbed the back of his neck tiredly, and then gave in to the urge to rub his burning eyes. "Yeah, yeah. I know the routine."

Thirty-five years of age, and three of his parents' oldest friends could _still _make him feel like a recalcitrant six year old. _One _of these days, he swore that he was going to manage to achieve adulthood and be able to deal with these people as a respected equal...

'_Gee. How much respect do you _want_, moron?_' this time the little voice sounded like his mother, complete to the patented Cordelia Chase undertone of exasperated affection underlying the sarcasm. '_You've got several dozens of the finest minds and __the __deadliest __and most accomplished __people of your parents__'__ generation following your orders and willingly placing themselves under your command._'

Which was part of the problem. A regular kid had teachers and normal parents to live up to. _He _had living legends.

"You require sleep, Morgan," Seven said, gently.

"I know," Morgan said, nodding. "And I can't sleep. Not yet. Too... "

"Too much to do, yeah," Warren said, nodding, "And too much riding on it."

And yeah, Warren Mears would understand and know all about that. He drove himself twice as hard as almost anyone else, since even before the Long Night fell, and _still _somehow managed to pull one technological miracle after another out of his hat despite the pressure.

"I know for a fact that you've mastered the required biofeedback techniques," Seven said, her voice still gentle. "And if those are not sufficient, there are always sedatives."

"No!" Morgan held up a hand hastily at Warren's sudden start and alarmed look. "I know. Just... no sedatives. I don't like what they do to my thinking. They always seem to make me feel muzzy headed and like my brain is wrapped in cotton for days afterward."

"Understood, General," Seven said, giving him a not unsympathetic look. Of course... Seven had known about his reaction to sedatives and sleep aids for a long, long time now. Since he was still a teen, as a matter of fact. And the _real _reasons behind that aversion...

Sedatives stopped the dreams.

He'd never known for certain if the dreaming was some inherited aspect of his mother's Sight, some version of his dad's cockeyed and deadly accurate insight, or a combination of the two. Or whether it was something entirely of his own, unrelated to either...

Morgan just knew that to the best that he could remember, at around earliest puberty his dreams had _changed_.

No longer the subconscious mind's eye sorting and filing the days and weeks events and projecting them in surrealist fashion on the big screen TV in his head, like a normal person. Or at least, not all of them.

Late at night in the deepest layers of REM sleep, he walked in worlds he'd never seen; places and realms of wonder and terror. People and things came and spoke to him in his dreams, and showed him things... and as often as not, when he was awake, later on those things either happened, or they proved to be the solution to problems he hadn't even known would arise. Until they did.

Mom and dad had known, of course, and Kyle. He'd told them as far back as when it first started happening. And Uncle Giles... and of course, Seven, who'd been his and Kyle's unofficial aunt since they were both little.

No one else, other than Aunt Wendie. Morgan didn't even want to _think _about the reactions if it were to become known that way more than half of the brilliant solutions and insane but workable strategies and tactics he repeatedly pulled out of his hat had been suggested in a _dream_. And ever since 2023 and the night that his personal world had ended, not often, but often enough, those solutions were visited upon him by his parents.

Dwayne Hicks had his talismanic photos. Morgan Chase-Harris had his dream images of Xander Harris and Cordelia Chase.

They were the only remaining contact he had with the two most important figures in his life, and he didn't intend to take _any_ remote chance of losing them again.

And enough. He was way, way past dead tired if he was woolgathering like this in the middle of crisis analysis. Seven and Warren were right: he really did need sleep. And screw it –

Morgan Chase-Harris straightened his spine with a snap and brought his head up. "You're right," he said, looking down slightly to meet Seven's eyes with a level gaze that he dearly hoped was clearer than it felt. "I _do_ need sleep. And I _will_ get some. But first... "

An elegantly arched eyebrow was the only response, and Morgan sighed, plowing onward. "I feel absurdly like Hicks, all of a sudden."

Warren blinked at him, as did Seven, and then her expression cleared and she gave him an understanding look. "Of course, Morgan. Would you like for me to tell you a story as well?" she asked, in perfect deadpan.

Morgan snickered softly, followed by a choked back laugh. Laughter: so _not_ a good idea when there was _way_ too large a chance that you might not be able to stop...

"No," he said. "But that reassurance thing that Hicks took from you... Go? Or no go?"

Seven's mouth opened, and then she closed it carefully, exchanging a long look with her husband. Communicating without words, the way his mom and dad used to... the way that long, _long_ time partners and mates often did.

"There is no viable reason _not_ to go," Seven said finally, meeting his gaze levelly and evenly. "We have tested and examined the logs and readings exhaustively, and we can find absolutely no reason for the modified Backstep to have any possible connection with Tech-commander Reese-Harris' collapse."

"Timing of the event notwithstanding," Warren said, nodding crisply. "The only possible correlation is a minor but significant spike in the power curve at the moment of transfer that corresponds to Kyle's collapse."

"And even then," Seven added, "The anomalous power signature was well and safely within the calculated and allowed for maximum upper edge of the required power curves."

"And we're still not sure exactly what the nature of the additional power drain was?" Morgan asked, his eyes narrowing, "Nor of the analysis of the power signature?"

Another exchange of looks, followed by Seven stating simply. "We are not. Analysis is still proceeding."

Warren Mears had a thoughtful expression. "The anomaly is counterbalanced by the fact that Tech-sergeant First Geiger's simultaneous transference went like clockwork, with all readings and temporal signatures well within the calculated and expected parameters and curves."

That was reassuring except for the parts where it wasn't.

Like all of Hicks' Harriers, Elston Geiger was talented, skilled, beyond competent, and highly dangerous. You didn't get anything else in the Harriers: incompetents need not apply.

Master Tech-sergeant Dwayne Hicks, on the other hand, had that certain extra edge that couldn't be defined. That extra spark, whatever it was, that made someone like Benjy Sheridan transcend the merely deadly and competent and took them all the way up into 'phenomenon'.

It didn't hurt that Hicks had been put through the mill and through their own very peculiar and exacting finishing school by Benjy Sheridan herself and her Irregulars, as well as by the recently late and lamented Lieutenant Commander Hardesty.

Elston Geiger was good. _Hicks_ was one of those rare people that, like Sheridan, you gave the most hopeless and critical of jobs to and then dismissed them from your mind because you knew that whatever it was, whatever got in the way or tried to, they were going to surmount it and get the damned job done. No matter what the cost or the odds.

Morgan really hadn't been lying when he'd stated that Hicks and Geiger didn't have the _most_ critical of all of the Backstep missions, merely _one_ of the most critical. It just happened to be the one that was the most _personally_ critical to Morgan Chase-Harris...

All of that reflection cycled through his mind in far less time than it would take to speak it. Seven was saying, "We have a specialist enroute to examine the readings for mystical signatures. We should have more precise data after that analysis."

There was a tinge of distaste to her carefully modulated tones surrounding the term 'mystical signatures'. Not that Seven didn't believe in magic – all of them _believed_ – she just didn't particularly _care_ for it. It upset her world view despite the fact that she herself was a product of magic.

Hell, Morgan and Kyle Jordan _both_ were the products of chaos magic, if you wanted to look at it that way.

Then again, perhaps the distaste was justified. Magic, and especially _chaos_ magic, was at the root of their problems, as well as the struggle they were engaged in...

"Our time windows are precise," Morgan mused, his expression feeling as troubled as his thoughts. "And we're rapidly coming up on the next available one. So: go or no go?"

No exchange of glances this time. Warren visibly deferred to his wife with a minute shrug. Seven hesitated for an endless moment before speaking.

Well, not _endless_, exactly. No more than ten seconds. But for Seven?

It was eons. Stars were born and galaxies died in those moments.

Finally, she gave a crisp nod and those arctic blue eyes locked to Morgan's hazel ones. "Proceed. All of the other possible time slots for that insertion and the ones that follow have increasingly lower success to failure ratios. And failure is something that we can_not_ afford in this."

_Morgan's_ turn to hesitate. He paused for what seemed an endless moment of his own, indecision swirling in his mind's eye and all of the percentages and calculations tumbling through his thoughts. And finally...

Finally, he surrendered to his instincts and decided simply to trust that vast intellect, the sharp and incisive mind behind it, and the razor honed instincts behind _that_. Just as his _parents_ had so very many times over the years...

In the end, it always came down to trust.

It's the one thing that you can't buy, and it can't be earned. You just have to give it.

It was the one thing that both of his parents had stated again and again over the years. And the one thing they had _demonstrated_ time and again. Trust.

Trust in Seven and her sharp and brilliant mind. Trust in Warren, Faith, and Riley Finn, despite their dubious histories. Trust even in _Creed_, and his even _more_ dubious nature. Trust in Benjy Sheridan and her ability to pull victory from the grasp of disaster by a whisker's margin. Trust in Kendra Young and her ability to push beyond the outer limits of even Slayer strength and capability to defeat even overwhelming odds. Trust in _him_, even though Morgan knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that _both_ of them had sometimes despaired of Morgan _getting_ it.

Trust the in wealth of abilities and variety of memories that Ethan Rayne's misbegotten spell had given to a bunch of Sunnydale teenagers and children.

Trust in an untested, untried, and untrained teenage Dwayne Hicks on nothing more than the strength of one of Morgan's dreams...

And that trust had been repaid tenfold time and again. Never blind, often calculated, but once given, given without reservation or hesitation.

And the people it was given to all too often turned themselves inside out demonstrating that they were worthy of it.

Morgan Chase-Harris opened his mouth and–

"_Morgan!_"

Morgan turned irritably, his words dying unspoken for the moment as he switched immediately to an urge to deliver an _epic_ ass chewing to whatever moron decided that _this_ was a great time to interrupt. Whatever the hell it was, it had _better_ be an emergen–

The scowl and the snapped out comment both vanished as he recognized the figure behind the shout and clatter of boots on concrete flooring, to be replaced by raised eyebrows and a startled expression.

"Jamie? Summers?" Morgan shook his head slightly, as one of the few people he _hadn't_ expected to see charging up came to a halt in front of their little gathering. Wearing nearly full combat kit, yet. "The hell?"

"What _I_ was going to ask _you_," Jamie Summers said, not even winded by the run from wherever she'd come. She blinked, taking him in. "Damn, Morg. Commander, Sir. You look like pureed shit. And not all that well pureed, either." (beat) "All due respect and all that crap, sir."

"We've been carefully trying to avoid telling him that," Wendie said, her lips twitching again.

"Not too carefully," Warren added, "But, yeah. Kinda."

Long years of practice allowed Morgan to mostly ignore his relatives and family. He gave the youngest Summers sister an exasperated look. "As in, the hell are you _doing_ here, Summers?"

"Reporting for duty, General Commander, Sir. Duh."

Both Commander Wendie Sanders and Lieutenant Commander Warren Mears made muted choking sounds that suspiciously resembled muffled laughter, and Morgan viciously suppressed an urge to roll his eyes theatrically.

Yet another hazard to commanding family and old family friends. To possibly 98% of the Resistance and Tech-comm, with the exception of a few of the older officers and noncoms, he was not _just_ the son of Tech-commander Alexander Harris-Chase and Field Marshall Cordelia Chase-Harris. He was also General of the Armies Morgan Chase-Harris and a commander and a figure of nearly mythical proportions in his own right. As was his half brother...

Morgan had the deepest suspicion, constantly borne out by reality, that to Dawn Summers' daughter, he and Kyle Jordan both always were and always would be 'Morg' and 'KJ' first and foremost. Not the semi-mythical Commander in Chief and his Executive Officer and right hand man, but the gangling and often awkward pair of teenagers that she'd grown up with in her first few years and then the long years of the Long Dark afterward...

Not quite uncles or cousins, often best friends and frenemies, and for a long time, either victims or objects (take your pick) of her very earliest adolescent crushes. If they were also sometimes larger than life to her, it was just because just about _everyone_ was larger than life to the four year old she'd been when they all fell back in stunned disarray to Pylea.

While this was running through Morgan's mind's eye, as if she also were belatedly realizing that there was sometimes a difference, Tech-sergeant First Jamie Summers snapped to attention, clicked her heels together, and snapped off a militarily precise salute.

"Senior Tech-commander and General Sanders, ma'am," Jamie said, meeting and holding Wendie's eyes briefly before moving on, "Commander Seven, Lieutenant Commander Mears. Tech-sergeant First Jamie Summers reporting, ma'ams, sir."

"At ease, Tech-sergeant," Commander Sanders said, smiling broadly. "We're all family here for once. Save the military formalities for tomorrow or in public."

"Speak for yourself," Morgan muttered, getting a sidelong quelling look for his troubles. "I'd kinda _enjoy_ a few military formalities for once."

"I'm sure you would," Jamie murmured back before giving Wendie a crisp nod and saying, "Ma'am, yes ma'am," and falling into a relaxed stance. Riveting her gaze on Morgan, she then demanded, "Okay, Morg: what the hell happened to KJ?"

Looking down at his childhood friend, Morgan opened his mouth, immediately swallowed the first ten things that ran through his mind, most of them sarcastic, then simply held up a hand and said, "Bide a moment, Sergeant. Business first." He turned back to his trio of staff officers -slash- family, began to open his mouth, and paused momentarily...

Data and calculations scrolled past his mind's eye again, were weighed, considered, and evaluated yet again. Nope. Nothing changed.

Facts on the ground: they had at least five combat Terminator instances enroute to the past. A T-101L, Blaisdell pattern. A T-XH Harmony Kendall pattern Hunter-Killer Infiltrator. A T-888, imprint pattern unknown, but they strongly suspected that it would be one of the DuFours or Kelley pattern infiltrator-assassin models. And a pair of T-950i Infiltrators, patterns unknown as of yet, their precise missions unknown. They only had temporal coordinates for those two. _Plus_ a T-1000, pattern unknown but suspected, mission unknown as of yet.

Facts on the ground: the nature of temporal resonance theory dictated that they had a limited number of _optimal_ transferal points in each resonance window in which to send back operatives of their own. After those windows passed, the success failure rations began to drop precipitously. Miss _this_ set of windows, and the _next_ optimal set wouldn't arise for another seven months, give or take a few days and hours.

Facts on the ground: the Resistance had their own set of Final Solution plans in the works that _depended_ upon those temporal transfers going off _first_ before they were set into motion. Missing these windows meant that those plans would _also_ have to be pushed back for another seven months. And far, far too many things could happen in seven months... MALCOLM could discover their base here in the old Event Group facility. MALCOLM and CAIN could discover – or build – a new temporal transference facility, and add in a whole new set of variables that had to be accounted for. Morgan or any of the other critical personnel could get themselves killed on a mission.

Or the horse could sing.

Facts on the ground: five combat Terminator instances enroute to the past to attempt to accomplish a Hail Mary play for MALCOLM and CAIN by eliminating the Resistance and Tech-comm via eliminating the leadership and founders before they became such. Never mind that it just flat wasn't gonna work the way that MALCOLM and CAIN thought it would.

The scientists and tech weenies could debate all they wanted to on causal versus non-causal physics, quantum mechanics, temporal resonances, and the merits of linear versus non-linear time.

Morgan Chase-Harris _knew_, beyond a shadow of a doubt, on a gut level and intuitive basis, that the debate was pointless:

When you attempted to change the past, if there wasn't one _already_, then you _created_ a cusp event. Time branched from that point onward as the ripples of the Butterfly Effect spread outward from the point of change. You _didn't_ change the future/present by altering the past...

You created an alternate universe branching off from that cusp event. You created a branching timeline and alternate history. The multiple worlds theory was accurate.

No matter what happened in the past, the battle against the machines was going to be settled here and now, in the present and future, one way or another. Win or lose.

And it didn't matter.

Morgan Chase-Harris didn't have to go into deep dreaming and ask the shades of his dead parents, should they happen to show up, what their advice would be. He _knew_ beyond the shadow of a doubt what Alexander Harris and Cordelia Chase would say.

You fight. You win. And you _don't_ give up your world or your people to the demons, the machines, and the forces of Hell. Not now, not _ever_.

Not _any_ world. Nor any_one_.

It just flat didn't matter that the Alexander "Xander" LaVelle Harris and the Cordelia Desiree Chase in the 1997 that Hicks and Geiger had returned to were not and never would be his parents. They'd become the parents of _another_ Morgan Chase-Harris, or those of someone completely different. Or not. It didn't matter that the Faith Michelle Lehane of that timeline might or might not give birth to a Kyle Jordan Reese-Harris, or might become the mother of someone completely different... might never meet up with and join the founders of the nascent Resistance, or that the Resistance itself might never be born in that worldline.

They were _not_ going to give those people up to MALCOLM and CAIN's assassins. They were _not_ going to give up those worlds, nor _any_ of the worlds that might be born from those cusp points to the machines and the forces of Hell.

It was just not gonna happen.

And just like that, the decision was made.

It had never really been a decision to begin with.

"Never give up. Never surrender," Morgan said, his voice soft.

Tech-commander and General Wendie Sanders gave him a long look, the corner of her mouth quirking up into a slight half grin. And if that grin were tinged with appreciative irony?

So what.

"I foresee terrible troubles," she said.

"And yet we stand here just the same," Seven murmured, nodding. "Your decision, Commander General?"

"Though the roads may be paved with good intentions, and though all the forces of Hell may bar the way," Morgan said, finishing the ritual. He nodded crisply, all of the exhaustion and the incipient tension born migraine falling away momentarily. His head came up, and cold hazel eyes met blue gray and then green hazel and brown evenly in turn. "All right, Seven, Warren," he said. "It's a go. Make it happen."

Throw the dice and let them fall. You could do all of the calculations you wanted, analyze all of the data you could, review all of the intelligence, worry over all of the variables... and still the inexorable calculus of combat reigned supreme: no plan ever survived first contact with reality on the ground, much less contact with the enemy.

Sometimes you just had to say 'what the fuck', and jump.

Seven inclined her head and said, "Of course, General."

"Orders received and understood Morgan," Wendie said. Eying him carefully, she added, "Now. You: go deal with your family. And then get some- no, wait," she raised her hand, aiming an index finger at Jamie, "_You_: Tech-sergeant; feed him and then _make_ him get some sleep."

Straight faced, Morgan clicked his heels together, snapped his spine straight and his hand to his temple in a militarily precise salute. "Ma'am, yes ma'am, Tech-commander mom ma'am."

The hairy eyeball that got him from his aunt wasn't improved any by Jamie Summers dope slapping him smartly upside the back of his head. Morgan rubbed his head and gave her an irritated look that rolled off like water from a duck, naturally.

"Yes ma'am, Tech-commander Sanders, ma'am," Jamie said, hooking Morgan's arm with her own. "I know it's a stretch, but don't be a wiseass, Morg. Now, come on."

Decision made, all of the high-wire tension that had been keeping him momentarily alert and wide awake fell away, leaving him filled with exhaustion again and aware of the incipient migraine still throbbing behind his eyeballs. Nonetheless, Morgan resisted Jamie's attempt to turn and pull him away, shaking off her hold on his arm.

Fixing a bleary glare on Commander Sanders, he said, "Push back the pre-jump briefings and orientations by, ah... three, no _four_ hours tomorrow. I'll take care of them after I've woken and had time to become human again."

"I'll take _care_ of it, Morg," Wendie said, shaking her head and giving him an exasperated look. "_We'll_ take care of it. We are _not_ amateurs here, Commander General, sir."

"I know, I just," Morgan held up a hand, palm out, swaying on his feet momentarily. "It's just that– "

"Commander General Morgan Chase-Harris," Wendie Sanders said crisply, not quite snapping it out, "It will be taken care of. I will make it happen, sir. Now, get thee gone and to bed before you fall over and end up in a med-bed right next to your brother. Hear me?"

Her eyes flashed at him, and Morgan once again remembered exactly _why_ it was that Wendie Sanders was Third in Command of the Resistance, just marginally below General Kendra Young. And it wasn't just because of her close, nearly identical physical resemblance to their dead General and Field Marshall. They could have and _had_ created a Life Model Android to fill that role and purpose.

It was because for all intents and real purposes, she had _earned_ that position a hundred times over. From the beginning of the Resistance discovering and making contact with her in 2015, for every field mission that Cordelia Chase-Harris had gone out on, Wendie Sanders had undertaken an equally critical, dangerous, and simultaneous mission of her own in a widely separate location.

And had pulled it off. All of them. And had _continued_ to do so for all of the years of the long decade after her cousin's and Xander Harris-Chase's deaths in 2023. She was by now an accomplished commander and leader in her own right, and had been so for a long, long time now.

"Ma'am," Morgan said, inclining his head and giving her a rueful and semi-apologetic half grin. "I'm– "

"_We_ are gone now, ma'am," Jamie said, nodding. "Come on, Morg. Don't piss off Our Aunt the Commander. You really won't like it when she gets angry."

"I am aware." Sighing, Morgan let himself be turned and pulled away from the group at the Chronosphere. Gonna have to revoke Jamie's clearance some day. Not that she'd actually pay attention to that or let it _stop_ her.

He spared one quick, reflexive glance at the rigidly motionless form of Wendie Sanders' T-888X Model bodyguard. Shivering slightly at the physical resemblance it bore to his dead father, he dismissed it from his mind and fell in alongside of Jamie Summers, stumbling only slightly from weariness. Morgan barely registered his own gynoid Life Model bodyguards leaving their own motionless stances and falling in behind them.

That was expected, after all. And _they_ didn't have uncomfortable physical and mental associations for him...

Traversing the Time Tunnel enroute to the elevators, Jamie glanced up at him. "So. I'm guessing that I interrupted important Tech-comm business, huh?"

"Gee. What was your first clue?"

"Again, don't be a wiseass. That's Kyle's job, and _he's_ actually good at it," Jamie said, tossing her collar length hair. "Speaking of... ?" she gave him a pointedly inquiring look.

"I'll fill you in," Morgan said, "I promise. Let me make a quick check on his condition first, okay?" He cut across Jamie's incipient protest by holding up a hand, palm out, as he pulled his combination pad computer and Blackberry from a cargo pocket. "Text. It'll only take a bit."

Sighing, Jamie made a go ahead gesture and stepped back, watching him. Morgan quickly connected to the med center's comp and entered his query, almost immediately reaching the on duty medic and getting a response.

Not a good one. No change. Nothing he could do about that either, dammit...

Sighing, he put the e-Pad away and shook his head to Jamie's inquiring look. "Okay," she said, "Well?"

"We don't know," Morgan said, simply. To her scowl, he elaborated, "He simply collapsed for no apparent reason at the same moment that Hicks' jump hit transference stage. High brain activity, no obvious trauma – he just won't wake up."

"Crap."

"Yeah," Morgan breathed. "We suspect, or at least we're concerned," he added, "That given the nature of Hicks and Geiger's transfer that there might be a resonance connection to the transferal. Even though that _shouldn't_ theoretically be possible."

"Because of course, there is no difference between theory and practice," Jamie said, nodding. Glancing down, Morgan saw the play of emotions and concentration across her features outlining her thought processes as she worked out the implications.

Of course. Jaime had inherited her mother's brains, after all.

"Except when in practice there is, yeah," Morgan said, sourly.

"Because they were jumping to the _exact_ point of the chaos event that started this whole mess," Jamie said, scowling.

"Yup. Allowing for time passage, and 'temporal cascade resonance frequency shifts', whatever those are," Morgan grinned slightly, "They had to leave here _precisely_ at midnight 13:13 on November first in order to land there at 5:20:13pm Friday, October thirty-first."

Jaime blinked at him, and Morgan shrugged. "Don't ask. Science I'm good at. Temporal physics and quantum mechanics are a bit over my head, though. I let Warren, Fred, and Seven do the math; I just nod and trust what they tell me."

Snickering slightly, Jamie nodded. "Makes sense."

"So. How'd you– "

"Get here? Jumped in with Commander Mom," Jamie said, frowning.

Commander – oh. Right. Dawn Summers, aka Commander Mom. The sequenced temporal transferences weren't the only missions on the docket. Duh. Dawn and Jamie Summers, Hicks' – no, _Hayden's_ now – Harriers, Creed and Barkley, Amy Madison, Benjy's Irregulars, Commanders Aura and Jonathan, both Hells-Gate teams, Michael Czajak, and Joel Garrity all had a set of equally critical operations that were set to go off from here with full briefings scheduled to begin tomorrow evening.

Final operations.

Countdown for the final phase of Tech-comm's war against the machines was up and running.

By the end of November, mid December at the very latest, either MALCOLM and CAIN would be on the way to becoming bad memories, or... or else Tech-comm, North American Resistance Command, would be coming up with entirely new definitions to go along with the phrase: "We are well and truly fucked."

And damn. If he'd managed to lose sight of all of that, Morgan Chase-Harris was seriously _beyond_ just a need for sleep.

"Ow!" Rubbing the back of his head, Morgan gave his youngest and oldest friend a half irritated, half exasperated look. "The hell?"

"I _know_ that look, Morg," Jamie said, scowling up at him. "You are _not_ going to hare off trying to take care of eleventy-dozen critically important things while you're dead on your feet, hear me?"

"I wasn't!"

"Uh huh."

"Seriously!" Morgan huffed irritably, glaring down at Jamie. "Honest. That 'look' was me realizing that if I managed to somehow _completely_ blank out the fact that you and Dawn were due here for the mission briefing tomorrow evening, I seriously was way, way _past_ just _tired_."

"Hrrmph." Reaching out to push the elevator button for the residence and shops levels of the complex, Jaime unhooked his arm and stepped away, turning to face him. Folding her arms over her chest, she favored him with a suspicious looking glare before finally giving him a reluctant nod. "All right. Sold and purchased."

"Good."

Crossing his own arms over his chest, Morgan favored her with a downward glare of his own.

Downward, because while Jamie had inherited her mother's looks and figure on the seven eighths scale, she _hadn't_ inherited the family height gene. At least not her mom's height gene: she took more after the older Summers' sister in that respect. Without heels, she was just under an inch shy of being a foot shorter than Morgan's six foot two.

The clinical portion of his mind noted yet again that Warren Mears and Seven had done a phenomenal job of designing the cybernetic prosthetics for her. Even knowing of the enhancements, you couldn't see where they had replaced Jamie's limbs and eye following the blast that had shredded both legs, her left arm and right forearm, while trashing and destroying her left eye and ear along with that side of her face.

The aesthetic portion noticed yet again that his youngest surviving friend had grown up to be beautiful. Dawn Summers naturally gorgeous features had dominated in that mix, and combined with Jamie's Hispanic father's dark tan skin tone, her mother's blue eyes were startling in the cinnamon tinted face. (Not widely spoken of, but it was common knowledge in their families that despite the lack of a marriage certificate, the long dead Carlos Trejo had been Jamie's father. And no one cared. Anyone who _did_ care could take it up with Morgan.) The primitive male in the back of Morgan's mind translated 'beautiful' to 'hot babe'.

Make that 'extremely hot babe'. Her mom's sharp features had softened in this iteration, with fuller lips, and slightly larger and fuller breasts. Add in a narrow waist and full hips to the muscular and curvy legs – cybernetic or not – and it was probably a good thing in some ways that Jamie had come into adolescence well after the Long Night. By the time she started developing serious curves and looks that would have almost guaranteed lustful attention from males, her and Morgan's family's stature had lessened the need for him and Kyle to have more than a few very short, sharp barracks room chats with various Neanderthals.

Even if they hadn't... the looming presence of Victor Creed in the background would have had a dampening effect. Any rough hewn trooper or less than tightly wrapped male survivor that might have been tempted to treat the nubile and teenaged Jamie like a B-girl in a leave tavern had second, third, and then fourth thoughts at the concept of crossing a gruffly paternalistic _Sabretooth_. That was even more chilling than the thought of having a pissed off Xander Harris coming after you with blood in his eye.

_Almost_ as chilling as having a pissed off Cordelia Chase and Dawn Summers wanting to have a 'shotgun and shovel' talk with you.

And then by the time she hit eighteen, Jamie was a trooper on her own merits: a graduate of the finishing school of Creed, Barkley, and the Sunnydale Irregulars. And far too dangerous in her own right to trifle with.

You just flat _didn't_ earn a combat position in Hicks' Harriers through nepotism–

"Again, Morg," Jamie said, breaking into Morgan's idle and sleep deprived musings, "You look like frozen shit."

The ding of the arriving lift temporarily interrupted his response. The four of them crowded into the elevator, and Morgan reached past Jamie to enter the code for the food court levels.

"Gee, thanks, Jamie," he said, shaking his head sourly. Apparently while he'd been... _appraising_ her, _not_ checking her out, no... she'd been giving him a critical study of her own. "And here I was thinking that _you_ were looking awfully good."

"Well, of course I do," she said, tossing her dark hair again. "Which has zero bearing on you looking like frozen crap. When the hell was the last time you slept?" she asked, looking askance at him.

"Ah– "

"Seventy-eight hours, forty-two minutes, and twenty-six seconds," ALICE stated, "Allowing for the four brief catnaps he's taken during the past three days, as well as the various moments in which he has nodded off for minutes at a time."

Morgan gave his gynoid bodyguard a sour glance. "Thank you, Alice. Your precision is noted and unappreciated."

"And your snark is wasted on Alice, Morg," Jamie said, smirking at him. "Thank you, Alice."

"Fine. What she said," Morgan huffed. "I've been busy."

"Uh huh." Continuing her critical appraisal, Jamie finally sighed heavily and rolled her eyes. "Or the last time you ate. Or, hell, Morg – when was the last time you got _laid_, for crying out loud?"

Morgan choked, staring at her. "Uhhh... " he managed, completely derailed and boggled.

"I'm gonna take that as meaning 'awhile now' for both questions," she said, smirking up at him again. "Hopefully you've eaten more recently than you've managed to get your ashes hauled."

"Ah, yes?" Okay, and his voice cracking on the 'yes' was downright embarrassing.

"Good." Jamie fixed him with a narrow eyes look. "And the other would have been when... ?"

"None of your business," Morgan snapped, glaring at her. He gave both of his bodyguards a look that flat _forbade_ a response from the peanut gallery. APRIL closed her opening mouth with a click, glancing away.

"I'm _making_ it my business," Jamie snapped back. Folding her arms over her chest, she arched her eyebrow. "'Fess up, Morg."

"Uhhh... " okay, that was just embarrassing. Morgan flat was _not_ going to admit that he couldn't remember.

When in doubt or cornered, attempt a lame joke. Always worked for his dad... Morgan pasted on a bland expression, waggled his eyebrows, and asked, "You mean with a real girl?"

He apparently wasn't his dad. Jamie's expression suggested that that one wasn't even in the shopping cart, much less for sale.

"Very funny," she said, glaring at him.

"When was the last time I was in New Sunnyvale? Or back at Beluria?"

"A year ago, after the Black Mesa penetration," she said, matter of fact. "And I know for a fact that you didn't spend any time with Miranda Breckenridge during the four months you were there. We've talked."

"About me?" His eyes widened, and the 'me' came out in another squeak, dammit.

"Don't get your head all swelled," Jamie said, her lips quirking. "You were a minor topic."

"I _do_ know other girls," Morgan said, more than a bit stiffly.

"Yeah?" Jamie tossed her hair, smirking up at him again. "Name three. Alice and April don't count." Glancing apologetically at the two gynoids, she added hastily, "No offense."

"I– " exasperated, Morgan shook his head, huffing slightly, and said, "Fine. I was busy. We had planning, data and intelligence assessment, and– "

"Work to do, yeah," Jamie said, nodding. "Story of your life. _Morgan_... " she shook her head, looking equally exasperated. "You have _got_ to do something about that."

Rolling his eyes, Morgan smirked down at her and shrugged. "Why? Are you offering?"

Okay, and where the hell had _that_ popped up from? That hadn't been even remotely on his list of responses...

Oh. Right. Hot girl. Healthy, adult male exhausted far beyond normal control of his faculties. Do the math.

Jamie snickered, and her full lips spread out into a broad grin. She gave him a speculative look and said, "I'm seriously tempted to say yes, Morg, just to make sure the job gets done properly."

"Jaime!" it came out in a kind of a strangled squawk and his mouth fell open as he stared at her.

"What?!"

"I've known you since you were _four_, dammit!"

"Jeeze, Morg," Jamie said, rolling her eyes. "It's not like we're related. You didn't even baby sit me as a kid."

Okay, it's not like the concept was revolting, exactly, Morgan thought. Looking down at the big blue eyes, gorgeous face, wide full lipped mouth, and impressive chest pushing out against the fatigues blouse, far from it. Just... startling.

Not like he'd been completely oblivious to the crush she'd had on him and Kyle when she was younger, either. Nor oblivious to the fact that the gawky teenager had turned into a stunner of an actual girl around the age of eighteen or so.

And naturally, he had the distinct impression that those sharp blue eyes were following every nuance of his thoughts across his features. Dammit. Gonna have to put that poker face in the shop and get it repaired...

The broad grin turned lopsided and Jamie batted her eyelashes at him. "I always kinda thought it'd be lots of fun, myself."

Right about then, naturally, the light flashed and the bell dinged for their stop, leaving Morgan spluttering at her. Jamie winked and stepped out through the opening doors, throwing a bright flash of grin over her shoulder at him.

It didn't help that the treacherous hindbrain part of his mind had him appreciating the way that the camouflage pants clung to her legs and hugged that rounded bubble-butt as she strode off, leaving him spluttering.

He probably just imagined that there was an extra bit of twitch and swing to her hips going away. Probably.

The fact that the curvaceous legs that the fatigues were clinging to weren't original equipment didn't bother him in the least. Morgan had even less of the prejudice to cybernetics and robotics than the majority of Tech-comm personnel did, and it wasn't prevalent among those.

That there was rampant speculation in some quarters surrounding the fact that both of his android bodyguards were functional gynoids that strongly resembled attractive women hadn't escaped him along the way. Whether or not there was any truth to the speculation was no one's business.

Hey. The massively screwed up man that he was today had once been an equally screwed up and desperately horny male teenager once. Do the math.

Sighing heavily and rolling his eyes, Morgan shook it off and stepped out after her before the doors started to close on him, with ALICE and APRIL following close behind. Lengthening his stride a bit, he caught up and fell in alongside.

He _really_ needed some sleep. He was apparently far, far too fried for this conversation.

He was _definitely_ too fried to be having it with the person he was having it with.

"I'd probably fall asleep on you," Morgan said, shrugging.

"I know. And _that_ would be unforgivable," Jamie said, grinning up at him. "You'd almost certainly want to be awake for this."

"Seriously, Jamie?" he said. "For Chrissakes."

"Hey, Miranda says you're pretty decent," Jamie said, shrugging and derailing him completely once again.

"Ahh... " Morgan gave his head another shake, starting off after her again.

"Oh, crap," Jamie said, snickering, "I done went and broke you."

"You did not!" Morgan snapped out. "And hey, why all of the interest in my love life, anyway?"

"I don't have any, really," Jamie told him, shrugging again as he caught up with her. "But seriously?"

Lengthening her stride, Jamie drew ahead a bit and then spun on him, scowling. Morgan stumbled to a sudden halt. Fortunately, his bodyguards were far enough behind that neither of them stepped into him...

"Morgan," Jamie said, her eyes flashing. "You don't have a freaking _life_."

"Hey! I do so!" he said, blinking at her. Of all of the things he'd been expecting, that wasn't any of them. That... stung.

"Bullshit," she said, snorting. "_Morgan_. You can't _remember_ when the last time you got laid was. You have three, count 'em, _three_ close friends, and one of them is currently out for the count in a med-bed. The other is across the country on a mission, and you probably haven't exchanged four sentences in as many months. You barely sleep any more. You eat when you think about it, or when Alice or April reminds you to. You work all the time– "

"Hey, I'm– "

"In charge of freaking Tech-comm and the Resistance, right," she said, rolling her eyes and glaring up at him. "It's called Command Staff. Look it up."

The Event Group complex was huge, and severely underpopulated, but now that they were in the living and commissary levels, there were enough personnel about that other troopers, techs, scientists, and staff officers were going about them on business. All of them very carefully _not_ noticing the General and Field Marshall of Tech-comm and a Tech-sergeant practically having a yelling match in the middle of a major corridor.

"I _know_ what it's called, Jamie," Morgan snapped, glaring down at her. "I have one."

"Then fucking delegate some of this stuff," Jamie snapped back. "Before you have a freaking breakdown on us."

"You know," Morgan said, heatedly, "I _can_ fucking _order_ you to shut the fuck up and leave it be, _Tech-sergeant_."

"Oh, yeah, like _that's_ gonna work," Jamie retorted, just as heatedly, "General and Field Marshall sir." Snorting derisively, she continued, "Just about as well as it did when I was fourteen and crushing on you and Kyle and following you guys around everywhere you went, huh?"

"Oh, for... I can't, Jamie," Morgan said, shaking his head. "I'm the only one that can do a lot of this. The only one that can sort through a lot of this, and make the calls that have to be made."

"Which is why we _can't_ have you running yourself out on the ragged edge, Morg," Jamie said in a much calmer tone, gazing up at him steadily. "And continually pushing yourself until something gives and you finally hit crash and burnout stage on us."

"Jamie... " Morgan gave her another exasperated sigh and a look to match. Spreading his hands, he said, "If I could find time for a life, or a way to fit one in, I'd have one."

"Your mom and dad always found a way," Jamie said. And, ouch. That was hitting below the belt and it practically cut his legs out from under him.

"I'm not my mom and dad," Morgan ground out between clenched teeth.

"I know," Jamie said, calmly. "And that's the problem. You're trying to be."

If looks could kill, his glare would have incinerated her on the spot. "You're going to have to explain that one."

"You can't do it, Morg. It can't be done," Jamie said, ignoring the near lethal glare. "Your mom and dad weren't your mom and dad, even."

"You know, Summers, this oldest friend thing?" Morgan told her, his eyes narrowing. "We're getting perilously close to hitting the end of the road for that here."

"And that would suck, truly," Jamie said, nodding.

"Then maybe you should drop it, Jamie," Morgan said, his voice sounding frozen in his own ears.

"Would love to. Can't." Jamie shook her head. "Because someone has to, and apparently Kyle's not available. Not that you'd ever listen to him, even when he is."

"I _always_ listen to Kyle, when he has something to say," Morgan said, stung.

"Not on this you don't," Jamie said, her expression set in her best stubborn. "You can't. And _Kyle_ isn't capable of _making_ you listen because of who and what _he_ is."

"And that would be?" Morgan asked, half derisive and half honestly curious. Combined with his near total exhaustion, the conversation was starting to take on a tinge of surreality.

Starting to, hell. It started out that way.

"He's the son of Faith Lehane and Alexander Harris-Chase," Jamie said, quietly, "The Hero of Boldt Castle, and the Father of Tech-comm." Cocking her head slightly, she gave him an indecipherable look. "_His_ parents are living legends too, just like yours. He can't tell you anything on this that you'll listen to, because _he's_ too busy trying to live up to his _own_ legend and expectations."

Ouch. That cut way too close to the quick. Far too accurate for Morgan's comfort zone, too.

"And of course, _you_ don't have that problem at _all_, Jamie _Summers_," Morgan drawled out, snorting derisively.

Nodding, Jamie said, "I'm not my mom. I'm not my Aunt Buffy, either. Unlike you, I know this, and I'm not trying to be. I'm carving out my own legend."

True. And doing a damned fine job of it, too, Morgan thought. The ruthlessly honest part of himself that he inherited from his mother the living legend wouldn't let him think anything less.

Shaking his head tiredly, Morgan gave her a bleak look and began, "Jaime – "

He wasn't really sure what he was going to have followed that with, but Jamie didn't give him a chance to explore it. With a sharp gesture, she cut him off.

"Morgan... Alexander LaVelle Harris and Cordelia Desiree Chase didn't set out to be living legends or heroes. As I understand it, they were just a couple of normal teenagers who got stuck in the middle of extraordinary events and found themselves forced to become extraordinary in order to survive it," Jamie said, looking up at him earnestly. The concept of seeing his parents as ordinary _anythings_ boggled Morgan for a moment, and robbed him of speech. "Faith Michelle Lehane, too. Just a bit less with the 'ordinary', because hey: Slayer."

"It's not that simple, Jamie," Morgan began...

"Sure it is. You just can't see it."

"I'm pretty sure I've been seeing my parents my whole damned life, Jamie," Morgan said, his voice flat and weary in his own ears.

She cocked her head again, studying him. "You've been seeing what they became, Morg," Jamie said. "You started out seeing them as a kid, and to a kid, parents are always larger than life. And then the Long Night happened and the Long Dark fell, and you watched them become living legends because that was what Tech-comm needed someone to be. They were it. And they groomed _you_ to be that after they were gone, because they knew they weren't going to be around forever, and _someone_ had to. Someone they could count on."

Old and familiar ground, finally, and Morgan found a footing on it at last. "Let me know when you hit the parts I _don't_ already know, okay?"

"You know it above the eyebrows, Morg. Not deep down where you live," Jamie said, her voice still calm and her eyes still earnest on his own. "Xander Harris, Cordelia Chase, and Faith Lehane didn't become living legends on their own, or in a vacuum. They had a cast of _hundreds_ helping them do it. And according to mom, they never ever lost sight of who they were."

"Right," Morgan began, nodding–

"You and Kyle have been trying to do it by yourselves," Jamie said, cutting across him. "Sure, you've had help, but way deep down, everyone, even the people who know better, have always been expecting and needing both of you to be the sons of the legends. Doesn't help any that all of your lives, you've been _surrounded_ by living legends. You both have been so busy trying to _be_ that, and trying to live up to that legend that you never have even figured out just who the hell _Morgan _Chase-Harris is."

"I– "

Oh, crap. Morgan suddenly found that he didn't really have anything to say to that. Probably there was something, and he was just too brain dead exhausted to think of it. Damned women... always hitting you with stuff like this when you were least capable of dealing with it rationally...

"Right." Jamie nodded, still studying him intently. "Morg. What are you going to do with yourself when we finally put paid to MALCOLM and CAIN and there's no more wars to plan?"

"Ah... "

No answer to that, not a truthful one at least. He just flat was not going to tell Jamie Summers that if their plans finalized out, that there just wasn't gonna _be_ an after for him...

Because Morgan Chase-Harris had already figured out that there wasn't a place for someone like him in the brave new world the survivors of the war against the machine would be building. He'd known nothing _but_ war and the preparation for it all his life, even before the Long Night.

Fucking Victor _Creed_ would be more capable of adapting to peacetime than he would be. And wasn't _that_ just a hell of a notion?

"Well?" Jamie arched an eyebrow at him, looking uncomfortably like her mother all of a sudden, and Morgan was damned glad that she couldn't read minds...

Morgan flushed under that knowing gaze, and shrugged. "I'd kinda planned on retiring to Pellucidar. Finishing the exploration there and mapping it out for full colonization and settlement. Maybe doing some fishing, and a few hunting vacations to Limbo."

"Well, at least you've _thought_ about it," Jamie said, nodding. "You'll be bored to tears in three months, and eating your service pistol in six."

"I will not!" Morgan stared at her, incredulous.

"Right," she said, drawling it out. Jamie rolled her eyes at him. "Morgan... in order to live, you have to have something to live _for_. And right now? You have Tech-comm and seeing the end of MALCOLM and CAIN and putting paid to the war against the machines. Once that's gone?"

"I notice you didn't and haven't said 'if'," Morgan observed, studying her in turn.

"Nope. Losing isn't an option, so we won't."

"Simple as that, huh?" Morgan shook his head, suddenly bemused.

"Yup." Jamie nodded, grinning for the first time since the conversation went deadly serious on them. "Simple. Not easy. You'll pull it off, regardless. It's what you were meant to do."

Snorting, Morgan shook his head again, the corner of his mouth curling up into something resembling a smile. "I thought you didn't believe in destiny and fate, Jamie."

"I don't. I inherited it from your mom and dad," she said, nodding seriously. "Which is kind of odd, considering that I'm the one that's _not_ related to them."

"No fate but what we make," Morgan murmured.

"Right. To _you_, it's a catch phrase," Jamie said, smirking up at him. "For me, it's reality."

"How does that square with me being _meant_ to do this thing?" Morgan asked, honestly curious.

"Simple. You've been raised and groomed your whole entire life to do just that," Jamie said, seriously. "You won't let yourself do anything else. And _you_ have a cast of hundreds working double time to make sure that you pull it off."

"Ah." Morgan shook his head again, smiling slightly. "Well, then," he said, "Since it's a given, then, I guess I'll just have to figure out what I'm going to live for afterward."

"Yup. At least _now_ I know you'll be thinking about it," Jamie said, her grin turning lopsided on him. "Even if I did have to practically whop you upside the head to get your brain to jump the tracks and head that way."

"I will," he said, looking at her seriously.

"I know. I'm appointing myself to make sure you _act_ on it instead of just _thinking_ about it," Jamie said, narrowing her eyes up at him.

"You are, huh?"

"Yup. Damned officers can't even tie their shoes without a good Command Sergeant making sure they know which ends to pull," she declared, smirking again.

"Good thing I wear boots, then," Morgan said, laughing quietly. "Command Sergeant? Did I promote you while I was half asleep and forget about it?"

"Tempted to say 'yes' and let you wonder about it."

"Guess I'll have to do something about that."

"Reckon you will."

Morgan _had_ a pithy rejoinder to that, honestly, but a sudden yawn that threatened to split his face in half coupled with a cavernous sound from his midsection derailed whatever it was completely.

"C'mon, General Schmuck," Jamie said, snickering. Taking his arm, she turned and started heading them both toward the commissary, APRIL and ALICE trailing along after them. "Let's feed you and then put you to bed."

"Sounds like a plan," Morgan said, nodding. "I won't argue. Gonna tuck me in, too?"

"Yup. I'll even sleep with you to make sure you fucking stay there," Jamie said, nodding back.

"Ah... " Morgan stutter-stepped, nearly stumbling to another embarrassing halt. Damned woman.

"Just _sleep_, moron," Jamie said, laughing, "Considering that I've been up and at 'em since before daylight, Pylea time, and I'm beat as well."

"Ah. Well, all right, then," Morgan said, shaking his head in complete bemusement and swallowing another yawn. "Good plan."

"Anything else we'll have to negotiate on later. You'll _definitely_ want to be awake for it, I promise you."

* * *

.


	7. In Enemy Hands Too -

**Chapter Fifty-nine: In Enemy Hands Too...**

* * *

_Monday, November 3, 1997: Beneath Lowell House, UCS Campus, Sunnydale, __Afternoon__ 12:55pm –_

ZRAZZTTZ! Followed by a horrid fucking coughing roar.

Tigers make coughing roars like that. So do lions. And jaguars.

ZRAZZTTZ! Rrrrrrroowwlll...

She wasn't certain if it was real, or yet another part of the awful fucking dream she'd been having. Something about being trapped underground, with things that looked like men and weren't coming at her, and a big revolver and a heavy automatic bucking in her hands... knowing that she'd run out of bullets before they ran out of things to send against her. And singing.

Oh. Wait. That wasn't a nightmare.

That had been reality.

ZRAZZTTZ! Rrrrrrroowwlll...

Lieutenant Keisha Barkley, combat effective, Surveillance Systems Expert, EWACS, computers, and weapons technologies expert and gunfighter of the Bravo Heavy Combat Team of the Black Company, slitted open her eyes, closing them almost immediately. She realized three things immediately. One) she was lying down with tubes stuck in her arm, and she felt a lot better than she had any right to expect. Two) she was in a cell. She knew that without needing to see the doorway. The industrial and institutional puke colored paint scheme was enough to tell her this.

And three) she was naked.

Jesus Christ on crutches. What _was_ it about a certain type of male bad guy that liked keeping prisoners naked? Yeah yeah yeah. She'd been through the mill in the roughest training centers in the world. She knew perfectly well that it was for psychological purposes. Take away the dignity, and increase the sense of helplessness.

It was especially effective on males. Men always felt a great deal more vulnerable without their pants on. Most _should_ feel more vulnerable, really.

To laughter, pointing, and snickering.

It didn't work all that well on trained professionals. Fucking amateurs. Besides, Keisha Barkley knew she had a seriously good body, and was proud of it. She'd been going to nude beaches when the occasion allowed since she was eighteen. Being stared at and ogled by men or women was complimentary, not a sign of shame.

ZRAZZTTZ! Rrrrrrroowwlll...

Oh, and four) that horrible electric sound and that equally nasty sounding snarling, coughing roaring sound was also real, not a part of the dreams.

Huh. Time to crack open the eyelids again. Ok. Painful, but not debilitating. She bet that they left the lights on constantly. Another part of the process. No visible cameras, but she had zero doubts that they were there.

ZRAZZTTZ! Rrrrrrroowwlll...

Raise the head, just a touch. Ow. Wait a bit before repeating that experiment. But – bandages, with blood spotting. Not as large as she'd expect. An expert trauma surgeon, then. And an IV bag on a standing rack with something pale in it. Glucose, probably. Maybe.

ZRAZZTTZ! Rrrrrrroowwlll...

Not strapped down. Let's see if we can raise up now. Gonna hurt like hell. FIDO.

Fuck it, drive on.

ZRAZZTTZ! Rrrrrrroowwlll...

Oh-kay. And, oww. But she was up onto her elbows now, with her head raised. Bare room with a metal toilet and basin in one corner. Pallet and bare floor under it, not a hospital bed. The awful fucking sounds were coming from the cell across the way from hers, and from a blonde guy throwing himself repeatedly at the partition, drawing a shower of sparks, a ripple of coruscating green-white light, and a pained roar with every impact. And not much else.

Really, really big guy. And leanly built in places, but with massive rippling musculature. And teeth like a lion, blazing yellow eyes, and claws as long as Keisha's fingers. Just _covered_ in hair, almost as much as freaking Merrill, only yellow blonde, not black and brown.

And boy oh boy. That 'let's strip him and make him feel vulnerable and embarrassed' thing really backfired with this one.

Keisha resisted an impulse to wolf whistle. It would probably hurt.

At some point when she felt better, she really needed to get laid. After she killed everyone else in this fucking base or hospital or whatever it was.

ZRAZZTTZ! Rrrrrrroowwlll...

Barkley watched the ongoing process for a few more repetitions, admiring the man's determination, stubbornness and sheer lack of quit even if not his obvious lack of intelligence. Every impact and zorch threw him back across the cell, where he'd hit the wall, bounce, then the ground, shake that massive and shaggy head, and then roll to his feet. And do it again. And again.

"That just looks awfully fucking painful," Barkley ventured, finally. Her voice sounded hoarse, cracked, and rough, like it hadn't been used in a long time. Maybe it hadn't.

She could really use some water, or some cracked ice, even. Didn't seem to be an option right now.

Fuck it, drive on.

The comment did arrest the process, though. After he hit the wall and floor that last time, he rolled easily to his feet, and stared at her. Finally, the lambent glow died away, leaving a pair of golden yellow irised eyes.

"Tempered extra heavy duty glass, or maybe transparent steel. Electrified force field of some sort, with a stunning component. Voltage probably about six times what a taser puts out."

Oh-kay. _Not_ stupid, nor _just_ a brute. Too much sharp intelligence in those yellow eyes. Just stubborn. And determined.

"So, in short, hurts like a motherfucker, huh?"

The lips over there peeled back from very sharp teeth and fangs in a lopsided and way too engaging grin.

"Like a blazing blue fucking bitch, yeah," he said.

"Think I may know the answer to this, but," Barkley said, "Just in case my brain got rattled while the rest of me got riddled, who the fuck are you?"

"Am fucking Victor Creed. Sabretooth," he said. "You gotta name, frail?"

"Heh. Frail is peculiarly apt right now," Keisha said, grinning painfully. "Lieutenant Keisha Barkley, United States Army, currently of Bravo Heavy Combat Team of the Black Company. Whatever might currently be left of it, anyway."

"Never heard of you guys," Creed said. "But I gathered you were military from what the dumb ass brigade was saying."

"Yup." Keisha didn't nod. It would be too painful. "Came here hunting something. And you."

"Well, gee, Lieutenant, looks like you found me," Creed said. "Now let's see you take me down."

"Hah! And please don't do that," Barkley said. "Laughing is painful right now."

"Join the fucking club, frail," Creed said. "So, how many did you get before they dropped you? Seein' as to how you are alive after all."

"Lemme get back to you on that alive thing. Not so sure about that right now," Barkley said. She smiled. It wasn't a very nice smile, and it was echoed from the other cell. "By myself, or in concert?"

"Either."

"Let's see, counting the two I dropped immediately, at _least_ twelve in concert," Barkley said. "Singly? I think at least seven. I'm marginally better than Allred was. You?"

"Good to know. And good for you," Creed said. "And me, lost count after six. _Lots._ Was a bit too busy to keep track. Two of 'em don't count, though," he paused to grin malevolently. Barkley really liked that grin. "They got blowed up when their stupid electron rifles they were using overloaded and exploded on them. Poor babies."

"Nice to know. Trapped by their own booby," Barkley said, trying to suppress the laugh that wanted to bubble up. "Saw you on video, against that guy in the green and gold long johns. Not just a brute brawler. You're trained."

Not braggadocio exchanges, bad ass boasting, or anything of the kind. Nor idle curiosity. Just two trained and professional killers in dire straits trading resumes.

"Not military. But I've done the military black ops thing and the super secret agent bit, yeah. Been through the mill," Creed said, nodding. "Studied martial arts and blades from the best of the best in Asia." Without an ounce of braggadocio, he added, "I'm the best there is in the fucking world at what I do best. Killing people and breaking things."

"Good to know. And I'm gonna be nice and refrain from mentioning that apparently the kid who put you through a stone wall is slightly better," Barkley said.

"Hell, why bother with nice?" Creed threw his head back, laughing. "Iron Fist is good. _Real_ good. But he ain't a killer like us."

"True enough." She studied him for a long minute, and watched him study her back. "You're a bad guy."

"Been called worse, girlie. And there ain't none badder, no," Creed said. "So?"

"I am not nice people."

"Good to know. So?"

"I plan on leaving. Have work to do yet. Places to go, people to kill. Bargain?"

Barkley wasn't worried about the cameras and recorders picking up the conversation. _Knowing_ they were planning to escape wouldn't help their jailers any. And besides, if they _didn't _realize that trained and dangerous people would attempt escape and evasion, they were too fucking stupid to be any real threat.

"I'm listening," Creed said. "You ain't lost me on the curves, yet."

"Team up. Break out together," Barkley said. "Afterward, go our separate ways if you want."

Creed nodded. "Know that if a chance comes up and you ain't done healing, I won't wait for you."

"Hell, I wouldn't for you," Barkley said.

"Just _how_ good are you, frail?" Creed snorted, and made an impatient gesture, and said, "Meaning, when you're not FUBAR."

It was a slightly _different_ question than the resume exchange from earlier...

"We tend to call it NFG for 'No Fucking Good'," Barkley said. "Huh. I'm not quite in Michaela Reeves category in hand to hand and close quarters combat, but I'm not far behind. Won't even pretend that I'm in your or Iron Fist's weight class."

"Not many are. Go on."

"But I am mean, tough, fast, and deadly. And now that Bill Jordan is dead, put a pistol in my hands, and the _only_ person that can match me is Michaela Reeves, one of ours. I'm faster, she's more accurate. Wouldn't want to live on the margin between us. I'm not too shabby with a battle rifle, either," Barkley said.

"And you even know what to call it, yeah," Creed said, nodding. "So, you're a pro."

"Check and double check."

"You bein' a pro an' all, girlie," Creed said, his yellow-gold eyes beginning to dance merrily, "How'd you end up in here?"

Barkley gave a slight shrug – very slight, 'cause a big one would hurt – and said, "Just lucky, I guess. Orders changed, bad guys din't like our new ones, every little thang went all sideways all sudden-like. And then gone FUGAZI."

"Hah!" Creed threw back his head, laughing. "I'm thinking you done messed up on the zipped in part 'o that."

Keisha felt a slow, broad smile slide across her lips. "My. You _have_ been through the mill, huh?"

"I know your damn' acronyms, yeah," Creed said, still chuckling.

Barkley nodded slightly, "Hey, shit happens an' all," she said. "So?" Keisha arched an eyebrow and gave him an inquisitive look.

"You gotta deal, frail," Creed said. "I'll even give you my word not to kill you once we're out of here."

"Good to know," Barkley said. "Got any idea where _here_ is... "

She never heard the answer, if there was one, for blackness came in from around the edges and then engulfed her and swallowed her whole again.

* * *

_Monday, November 3, 1997: __Sunnydale MHMR__, Topanga Street, Sunnydale city limits, __Afternoon__ 12:55am –_

Ow. Getting _too_ smart assed was so very _much_ not a good idea. Whatever kind of cattle prods those agents and orderlies had built into those fucking batons hurt like hell. And they didn't leave a mark, either.

Oh well. Old cheerleader maxim: that which does not kill me hurts like a son of a bitch. Wake up your inner hard core bitch and carry on.

Cordelia wondered if those Black Company people had any equivalent sayings?

At least they let her go to the freaking bathroom finally, after freaking _hours_ of Dr. Bitch Call-me-fucking-Maggie's 'interview' session. They probably just didn't want to clean up Cordelia pee from the chair and floor. Or try to make her clean it up.

Cordelia suspected that she had gotten a lot more potentially useful information out of that than Maggie had. Not immediately useful in the 'get me out of here' or 'helps me escape' sense, but still... interesting. She wanted more of those 'off the official record' sessions.

Maggie really _wasn't_ as smart or as good as she thought she was. Or, more accurate, she _was_ just as intelligent as she thought she was. And with all of the blind arrogance that that gave to the true geniuses amongst us.

Read: manipulable by someone who was smart, only half as arrogant, and who had excelled at manipulation from the age of around seven or eight. And who had been trained in it by an _expert_: Cordelia's daddy, Randall Chase.

Dammit. She was so _not_ gonna cry for her parents and maid again. Not where these... _people_ could see her do it.

The fact that a male guard hadn't come in to watch her piss and crap told her volumes. It said that there were cameras in here as well.

Cordelia rinsed her face in cold water again, relishing the relative alone time. Relative was all she was going to get from now on. No moisturizer. Her complexion was going to be a wreck if this lasted for very long.

No weapons in here either.

Oh well.

And, huh? Was that a very small, bright green flash shooting down and across the freaking bathroom? And hey, there was something in her hair!

A tiny, female voice piped up right in her ear, and Cordelia let out a small shriek and jump.

"Hi! Lady Cordelia! Private Scout Pooka reporting!"

Yikes! The something in her hair could _talk!_ Oh, wait... "Uh, Pooka? Pooka the _pixie?_" Cordelia ventured, very quietly, trying not to move her lips at all if possible.

"Yes. Duh. And heya, are you ok?"

"No. But I'm making it. Jeeze, you scared me to death!"

"Sorry," the diminutive faerie said. She didn't sound sorry, and the tiny giggle was a dead give away. Cordelia began to wash her hands, doing a slow and thorough job of it. "We want to let you know we're around."

"We?" Cordelia said, blinking.

"The First Scouts, duh," Pooka said. "Of the First Sunnydale Irregulars, Tech-comm. Resistance."

Wow. Oh-kay... uh, waitammint. _Xander's_ junior freaking _soldier_ brigade? _Those_ Irregulars?

"Uh. Ok. Umm... hey. Be _very_ careful, kids. These are bad, _bad_ people."

"Uh huh!" Pooka said, cheerfully. "We are too! Bad to our bones! Got a message?"

"Huh? Message?"

"For Tech-_sergeant_ Xander, duh! Message!"

Oh, _gods _yes, did she _ever_. She had so many messages and so much to say to him that she could never, ever fit it into the time she had here for talking...

"Oh, God's _teeth_ yes. Is he all right?"

"Hurt! Hurt _bad_. But gonna get better. Message?"

Oh, thank gods. "Tell him... tell him that I'm all right, and I am coming to him just as soon as I can get out of here. And that Walsh is waiting so she can capture him, too. Stay _away_ from her. And... and he already knows everything else I want to say. I'll tell him in person."

Oh hell yes, she would. Hours and _hours_ of pillow talk, before, between, and after long bouts of freaking _wild_ hot steamy sex.

"Okay!"

"You got all of that?" Cordelia said, quietly.

"Uh huh! Pooka Bell _Scout_. Have _good_ memory, you bet!"

"Good. Uh, will I see you again?"

"Sure! Just call."

"Call?"

"My _name_, duh. Don't _have_ to be loud."

Good to know. And Cordelia suddenly felt immeasurably better, and immensely cheered. She wasn't alone now, even if she _was_ captured and in enemy hands. And even if her allies _were_ little kids.

Hey. If what Aura had said was true, they were the most dangerous little kids in Sunnydale. Thank you, Ethan Rayne.

Hell, she might have one of _his_ children one of these days, just for this.

"Chase! Out!" the door opened and Umbridge, her personal pestilence, stuck his head in, smirking. "Douche on your own time."

"It's ok. I don't have a douche bag," Cordelia said, drying her hands hurriedly. "May I use you?"

"Out!" he said, crossing the three steps and grabbing her by the upper arm to haul her out. He just barely caressed her with that damned baton, sending screaming agony through her lower back.

Cordelia did her best to bite back a scream, but a small involuntary shriek came out anyway.

"You certainly took your time," Walsh said, smirking as Cordelia was dragged out to face her. "And here I was thinking that you were in a hurry to get some clothing on."

"Had to take a dump. Oddly, it greatly resembled you," Cordelia said. "Do you have a twin?"

Yikes! _Day-um_, that _hurt_. Umbridge gave her just a touch more of the baton, high on the inner thigh. Cordelia was suddenly in _way_ too much pain to shriek, or even to scream. She just gasped and bent forward a bit...

And a small furiously glowing green blur came out of her hair, screaming shrilly in rage, and kicked a startled and frantically backpedaling Umbridge right in the nose. It then yelled, "Air Raid!" at the top of its tiny lungs, lunged –

– And stuck a small _sword_ right into Umbridge's left eye.

The entire room near the bathrooms was suddenly _filled_ with tiny, fast moving, glowing blurs. _All_ of them screaming things like "Kowabonga!", "_Bool_-ya!", and "Yippee Kiyi Mutherfuck!"

Director Doctor Margaret Call-me-Maggie fucking _Walsh_ was caught flat footed, leaning, and frozen in full on gape mouthed astonishment, her eyes wide and her mouth working like a fish out of water's.

Cordelia grinned like a she wolf, bent over further, and lunged forward, slamming the top of her head into Maggie Walsh's upper abdomen. The breath went out of her in a _whoulf!_ - Maggie's breath, not Cordelia's. Cordelia straightened, bringing her knee up sharply between Walsh's legs in the bad place. She'd learned in the school yard that _that_ hurt girls as badly as it did boys. And then she brought the other knee up at the same time as her clenched, cuffed hands came down like a club on Walsh's neck.

She felt something crunch and squish under the knee, she wasn't sure what.

Umbridge was staggering around like an idiot, waving his baton around with a hand clapped to his bleeding eye socket. Tiny blurred, glowing streaks were zooming around the room at high speed, attacking every orderly, nurse, and Maggie Walsh Agent in sight. Pandemonium wasn't quite yet reigning, but it wasn't far off.

Well, let's just _do_ something about that.

Cordelia gauged her timing with a practiced and professional cheerleader's eye, and latched onto Umbridge's baton forearm with both cuffed hands and sank her teeth into his wrist. He screamed, dropping the glowing ended baton, starting to turn his head toward her.

It was just natural then to reach in and yank the pistol out of his open belt holster. It was right _there_, butt turned toward her.

The muzzle went up as she skipped back and away, barefoot, and the first round took out his other eye.

No safety. Good to know.

Cordelia turned toward the other orderlies and the two, count 'em, two armed agents, her lips peeled back from her teeth in her best beauty queen smile. Except it wasn't a smile, it was a feral grin of triumph.

Lahini.

The two agents tried, they really did. Even beset and beleaguered by three small glowing and shrieking maniacs, one with a pair of small swords, they tried. It didn't help any, and it did them no good at all.

Cordelia turned the pistol on them, both cuffed hands on the grips in a two handed grip, and centered the sights on the most dangerous looking one. The one with the pistol closest to coming toward her, not the one blindly firing into the air and ceiling trying to hit the pixies. Just the way that Daddy had taught her to, long ago.

He caught the first round somewhere amidships, and she kept squeezing the trigger until he went over and down, dropping his handgun. It went off when it hit the tiled floor, and she never knew where the bullet went. It didn't hit her, and that's all that mattered.

Number two caught the rest of the magazine until the gun clicked empty with the slide locked back and he went down. Orderlies were screaming, yelling, cowering, and diving behind or under any cover they could find.

Cordelia knelt, reached, and pulled the two magazines from dead Umbridge's belt pouch, and reloaded awkwardly.

Bitch Walsh recovered _fast_ at the sound of gunfire, damn her. She was heading out the door all a scramble, screaming; gone before Cordelia had finished reloading. Dammit.

Ah well. Target rich environment, as the action movie guys would say. No end of things to waste bullets on while she was busy hunting down Walsh.

Speaking of...

Mr. Gropey Hands and Pocket Pool was doing his best to hide under an end table, seemingly unaware that it wasn't even concealment, much less cover.

"Hi there," Cordelia said, looking down at him. She tossed her tangled hair, giving him her best and most brilliant smile. "You miss me? Wanna cop another feel?"

He screamed, covered his head with his arms, and pissed his pants.

Three rounds down out of this magazine. Maybe the other orderlies would learn from his bad example. She picked up the dropped handguns, ejected the magazines, and bent to pick them up, laying the pistols down where they had fallen.

_Lahini. _The meat is getting pretty near the bone, but the bone is not yet cracked.

"Come on! Come on! Come on!" Pooka Bell shrilled, doing loops by the door.

Cordelia nodded and went. Screw Walsh. Time to leave... Orderlies and nurses she ignored, unless they were stupid enough to come _at_, rather than run away or dive for cover. Security guards, suited Agents, and Walsh goons were fair game. Cordelia wasn't the world's best shot with a handgun, especially an unfamiliar one, but the ranges were very short. And _they_ were distracted by kamikaze pixies...

And _she_ was in the grip of an icy cold berzerker rage that carried its own peculiar calm and deadly certainty with it.

Cordelia now kind of wished she'd paid more attention at that course at that ranch, whatever, in Arizona, but... oh well. Too late now.

Once she was out of _here_, she'd have to get Chief Warrant Officer Michaela to teach her how to do it _right_.

With the three pixies leading, scouting, and calling out, one violet glowing, and two green, Cordelia _almost_ made it to the reception and intake area. One magazine empty, one halfway or more. She'd lost count. One with three rounds missing...

And then there was a massive _ZORCH_ sound, and a brilliant ozone smelling bolt of pure incandescent pain struck her, and blackness came over all of a sudden.

She was _still_ smiling when she hit the ground, limp, and with unconsciousness closing in from around the edges.

_Lahini._

_Fuck_ you, assholes. Die a little.

* * *

_Monday, November 3, 1997: 1630 Revello Drive, Sunnydale, Afternoon 1:15pm –_

Urgh. There was something or someone pounding on the inside of her brain. No, wait... it was _outside_ of her brain. Whew.

Wait, pounding? Tapping... and a small, shrill shrieking voice. _Shrieking?_ Oh, crap.

Dawn cracked open her eyes, rolling out of the puppy pile she was sharing with 'Kat, Chessie, and Devila in their bed in the den. Mom had kinda given up on that one, probably just too exhausted to fight with Dawn any more.

'Kat, Chessie, Cap, and Devila wouldn't fight. or argue. They just did their best to explain in calm and reasoned voices, or maintained a stony silence when that didn't work until Joyce gave up on yelling at them. Dawn did her best to argue back.

As a result of which, she was probably grounded until Graduation. From high school. Maybe college.

Oh well. Dawn was rapidly learning that there were prices to be paid for trying to be an eleven year old grownup. And a _lot_ of them weren't _pleasant_ ones. Dawn also knew that a lot of it came from her mother being worried half sick about Buffy being in the hospital with everything going on up there surrounding Xander, and Michaela's people.

Knowing that didn't help.

Yawning, Dawn padded rapidly over to the den window and raised it. A small, green glow shot in through the gap at high speed, screaming, "_Mom!_ Mom! Momma Joyce! Mom! _Mom!_" and headed out the door for points beyond.

"Pooka?" Dawn ran out of the den after the blurring, hysterical pixie Scout, wondering just what the hell, uh, heck had her in such an uproar. Oh, gods. _Cordelia_. Oh _G__od_ no...

Heads popped up all over the den from under blankets and covers as she went by after Pook, blinking and scrambling out of bed.

"Mom! They have Lady Cordelia at that place and they were _mean_ to her! And they hurt her and I jabbed one of 'em in the _eye_ and then Lady Cordelia was shooting and running and then they hit her with _lightning_ and she fell and didn't move and... "

Joyce was standing in the living room, covered in some kind of batter and flour, and trying to wipe her hands on a dish rag that she didn't have while listening to the rush of words. With her eyes wide, and a shocked and terrified look on her face.

Cap, Wicked, Sav, and the rest of the Irregular's Scout division crowded into the living room from the den hallway and the family room, equally wide eyed.

"Pook! Slow down, report!" 'Kat demanded. It didn't help any.

Cap tried as well, with her best command tones. It didn't help either.

"And I have a message that she's ok and that she's coming for him and not to go because they're waiting but the Tech-sergeant is locked up and everyone's asleep and I couldn't get in and... " Pooka Bell was doing tight spiraling loops in a kind of a jittery hover, right in front of Joyce, and about three feet away.

Dawn ran on into the kitchen, grabbed a dish towel and wet it, grabbed another, dry one, spun and ran back. She handed both of them to her mom, who said, absently, "Thanks dear," and began using the moist one to clean up with, draping the dry one over her shoulder. It hit the ground behind her.

"Pook! Halt! _Report_, Scout," Dawn said. "Slow _down_, please, Pooka. We can't under_stand_ you. _Please_."

Pooka Bell snapped her head around, wide eyed. She nodded slowly, took a really deep breath and let it out. And then another. "Ho-kay."

"How did you do that, Dawn?" Cap said, shaking her head. Dawn shrugged, as mystified as Cap.

"Pooka? What in the _world?_ What's wrong, dear?" Joyce said, finally, using her best 'soothing the terrified kid' tones. Dawn picked up the dry towel again and handed it to her. This time it went over the shoulder and stayed.

Taking another deep breath and letting it out, Pooka began repeating her report again, slowly and precisely, obviously doing her best to not go into hysterics again.

" ... and she went down, and we don't know if she's alive 'cause we had to go go go, and then I was out and going hospital, and then here. Home," Pooka finished up. She took a deep breath again, and let it out slowly, and said, clearly and precisely. "You have to radio in to the Chief Warrant Officer Captain and let her know and the Tech-comm Colonel Sir and let them know. I couldn't wake 'em up, either of 'em."

"Who's we, Pook?" Aura said from over at the foot of the stairs. She'd stayed over after the Lieutenant Colonel had dropped the rest of the kids off, and had taken a quick nap in Buffy's room. Apparently, all the commotion had woken her.

Well, yeah, gee, Dawn, of course it had. It probably woke up people for six blocks around.

It's a wonder that Pooka Bell didn't shatter windows on the way in with a sonic boom, as agitated as she was...

"The Losted Boys pixies, duh."

Dawn felt her lips twitch at the corners, and saw 'Kat and Chessie's ears come up. If Pook could be sarcastic, then she was recovering fast.

"And Cordelia _shot_ people?" Joyce was saying, her eyes wide.

"Uh huh!" Pooka nodded vigorously. "She grabbed a gun thing from the mean guy with the glowing wand who hurt her after I stuck him in the eye, and then bang bang bang bang bang!"

"Good for her," Aura said. Joyce shot her a quelling look, but didn't contradict the sentiment.

"You shouldn't stick people in the eye, Pooka," Joyce said. "Even if they do have it coming."

"He hurt Lady Cordelia," Pooka said, folding her arms across her chest and sticking her lower lip out stubbornly. "He was _bad_."

Give it up, mom. You are just _not_ going to change _any_ Irregulars' minds on that one. Hurt one of ours at your own risk.

"I've got... oh crap," Aura said.

"Oh crap?" Dawn and everyone else was looking over at her, including Pooka and Joyce. Oh crap usually signaled a not good thing...

"I don't know if I _can_ wake up Michaela. Or should," Aura said, biting at her lower lip. "She was hurting bad, and seriously out on her feet when we left."

Cap, 'Kat, Chessie, and Devila nodded. "She was, really," Devila said. "Fall down and go boom out."

"Is there anyone else we can call?" Joyce said. "We have to do something."

"We may not be able to," Cap said, her eyes going wider. "The Captain was ordered _not_ to do anything about Cordelia."

"Crap, you're right," Aura said, scowling. "And if she's woken up, she'll grab a gun and go charging in, and either get killed or fired. Or thrown in prison. Dammit."

"Aura. Not in front of the kids," Joyce said. But she looked like she wanted to use stronger language herself. Dawn sure did. "How could they _order_ her _not_ to do anything? Even on something like, like... _this?_"

"Legal stuff, Mrs. Summers," Aura said. "Apparently, this Walsh woman has seriously powerful friends and backers. More powerful than the Black Company's or Michaela's colonel does."

"Well, that's just not right," Joyce said.

"I agree," Aura said, nodding. "But it is."

"We'll have to do it ourselves," 'Kat said.

"No!" Joyce, Aura, and Dawn all snapped out, more or less at the same time. 'Kat's ears flattened, her pupils went huge, and her tail turned into a bottle brush and started lashing back and forth.

"Sorry, 'Kat," Dawn said, holding her hands out, palms outward. "But we _can't_. We'll get killed. Or worse, we might get _Cordelia_ killed. Would you _want_ that? Would _Xander_ want that?"

"No. Wouldn't," 'Kat said, finally. Still lashing her tail.

"This one's not something we can do right now, Private," Cap said, shaking her head slowly. "Dawn's right."

'Kat made that sneezing, coughing, bullshit sound, and then said, "Crap," very distinctly.

"I agree," Aura said. "Oh! I think that Air Force Colonel gave me his number, too. _He_ probably isn't quite so dead to the world. I can at least tell him what happened, even if he can't do anything."

"We need to call Mr. Giles, too," Dawn said slowly, thinking things through. "He may not be able to do anything but he needs to know. And our Colonel and the First Sergeant as well."

"Way ahead of you on that one, Private Dawn," Aura said. "They're _next_ on my list. Tam's dad after them."

"Tam's dad?" Joyce said, looking puzzled.

"Tamara St. Marins, one of the Cordettes. She and Jonathan were involved in that shooting at the Bronze, and almost victims," Aura said, pausing with her thumb over the 'send' key. "Her dad is in the know, now, and while _he's_ not military or even an American, he owns St. Marins Petroleum. And _he_ has a lot of powerful friends and connections. Wealthy oil people always do. They _have_ to."

"Oh." Joyce said, nodding. "Ok."

"We're having that meeting you're invited to at their house tonight," Aura said. "_That_ Tam. I'd call Cordelia's grandfather, too, if I had his number." She pressed send and held up a hand.

"Maybe Giles will, or the school," Dawn said.

Aura nodded, and then, after a couple of long minutes, said, "Hello, Colonel Brock? Aura. Sorry to wake you, but we have a _huge_ problem..."

* * *

_Monday, November 3, 1997: __Sunnydale MHMR__, Topanga Street, Sunnydale city limits, __Afternoon__ 1:45pm –_

Dr. Margaret Walsh sat behind the desk in her office at Sunnydale County MHMR, trying to get her nerves and her still periodically trembling hands under control. She had a metal splint and gauze over her broken and flattened nose – which still throbbed even after being set with a local – and an ice pack to the bruise on the back of her neck.

What was _wrong_ with these people?

She could _expect_ something like a brutal assault from someone like that, that _soldier_ woman, she supposed. And the other two soldiers. And understand it, even. The poor things were the product of a brutal environment and training, and probably not really capable of understanding anything except violence, or dealing with people in any other than a brutal manner.

But Cordelia _Chase_ was the product of a good, wealthy family. And well raised, by all accounts, and with absolutely zero incidents or indications in her records of criminal or violent behavior. No record of any training in violence, or in martial arts, either, for that matter.

Well, except for one, possibly.

She had taken the Heckler & Koch executive protection course at one point, at the insistence of her father, apparently. And the anti-kidnapping course at something called "L.F.I.". Back when all that furor was in the news about violent kidnappings, extortion, and killings of dependents of wealthy businessmen in Latin America and the lower Caribbean. Apparently her family traveled down there frequently on business and vacations. Also a course at something called "Gunsite" in Arizona, whatever that was.

Walsh was going to have to look into both of those courses, apparently, and determine precisely what they entailed, especially for psychological behavior evaluation purposes. Know thy subject.

Apparently, she hadn't known Cordelia Chase well enough.

And, of course, there was a mention in Chase's file that she had been a skeet and trap shooter from a fairly young age. Even had won several trophies in competitions. However, _that_ did not train one in sudden and irrevocable violence. Not like the military or police did.

Margaret Walsh had shot trap and skeet before, herself. She had found it barbaric, but fun and a bit relaxing, in an odd sort of way.

It hadn't turned _her_ into someone capable of an explosion of sudden and lethal violence...

She really, really didn't understand this. Nor this... Chase woman, and what drove her to be like this. It was an aberration that she hadn't really encountered during her career as a clinical psychiatrist, except in violent criminals and so called street gang members. _Not_ in children from good families and wealthy social backgrounds.

Christ, Walsh thought, taking a sip of the Scotch she had poured herself. Strictly medicinal, of course.

Umbridge dead. Four other agents dead. One agent, the one who had finally gotten Chase with a PEBW, completely blinded. Two security guards, one male, one female, dead. And that orderly, what was his name, the one that Walsh's scrutiny of his records had indicated he was ideal to her purposes... also dead.

_That_ one had been shot deliberately and coldly, with Chase looking down at him while he cowered unarmed under a table.

Well, if she had needed any more evidence that Chase was violently insane and delusional, she now had it. On the security video tapes.

They would, of course, need to be carefully edited by an expert to remove any frames and scenes that might be viewed as... provocative by outsiders. Or as provocation.

But that was easily done. The DRI had technicians skilled at that. So did the Company, and so did any number of her backers.

Thankfully, no one had had the occasion to call the police or Sheriff's Department before Walsh had run to her office and shut down the outside phone lines and turned on the Initiative communications scrambler for cell phones. Walsh had time now to place the proper calls and make sure the County response was controlled, appropriate, and... discrete.

And, good gods. What _were_ those little green glowing things?

Margaret Walsh was beginning to detest this pestilent town with its infestation of HSTs, both large and small. A pity that it was such a mecca for the things, and thus for her research. Else she'd be sorely tempted to recommend that Sunnydale be nuked.

Screw it. She took another painkiller and washed it down with the rest of her Scotch. Call the local Sheriff, and set the stage and legalities in motion. Then, time to call it an early day and go home to her UCS campus apartment. Plenty of time tomorrow to deal with Cordelia Chase, and with that Barkley woman. And to start experiments on that Creed fellow.

None of them were going _anywhere_.

And _Chase_ could stew in her restraints all day and night, unfed. It wouldn't harm her any, and it might do her attitude some good.

Shaking her head, Dr. Walsh pulled her keyboard over and began to add to and amend her report.

* * *

It never occurred to Dr. Margaret Walsh that some civilians don't really _like_ being pushed around. And when they are, eventually, they'll push back. _Hard_.

And some have a lower tolerance for it than others...

Some civilians are even familiar with firearms. And an awful lot of the time, they tend to be better shots than the police, or security guards. They _enjoy_ shooting, and _they_ practice.

And more than a few civilian women have a _seriously_ low tolerance for sexual abuse. Some of them will even react violently to it, one might say.

* * *

**SUBJECT:** CORDELIA DESIREE CHASE

**OBSERVATIONS:** Subject displays classic signs of clinical psychosis, inclusive of a detailed and comprehensive aberrant subjective world view. Subject's aberrational state displays an extreme flexibility, including the ability to incorporate seemingly contradictory elements of normal consensual reality into the subjective state such that any and all conflicting input are able to be rationalized and explained away without violating the internal logical consistency of the delusional state.

Initial observation and interviews demonstrate that subject believes that a murderous, unstoppable humanoid android from the distant future has returned to the past seeking her death and the death of her paramour, Alexander Lavelle Harris (see attached supplement). Further, subject apparently believes said paramour to be a temporally displaced trained combat soldier sent to protect and to save her from the aforementioned "killer cyborg". The object fact of this future savior's physical indistinguishability from her childhood acquaintance is thoroughly rationalized via the delusional certainty that his "future soldier" alter ego "jumped" into Alexander Harris' body and either subsumed or displaced the previous owner's personality and self identification.

The subject's delusions include a detailed account of said supposedly indestructible creature's destruction at her hands and those of her companions via a combination of heavy weaponry, persistence, and imaginative use of environmental factors. It should be noted that neither the weaponry that the subject stated to have used for these purposes, nor any corroborative evidence or remains of such a creature were found within the vicinity of the subject when she was apprehended shortly after said altercation supposedly occurred.

While it is true that subsequent events have demonstrated that subject Chase was being pursued by yet another childhood acquaintance who apparently seeks to commit homicide upon her person, this should not be taken as verification of the verisimilitude of her subjective reality. The events at the local teen establishment known as "The Bronze" and the Sunnydale police headquarters can be readily explained by a combination of factors not excluding 1) military grade ballistic armor 2) pain and sense deadening drugs such as PCP and various psychotropic compounds and finally, 3) simple bad aim on the part of police officers and the local firearms users at the club.

**DIAGNOSIS: **Clinical psychosis, in conjunction with violent pseudo schizophrenic delusional state, paranoid delusions, martyr complex, and severe antisocial personality disorder. Subject is qualitatively non compos mentis, and unable to function safely or effectively within the boundaries of nonclinical society.

**ADDENDUM:** Delusional state and advanced antisocial personality disorder coupled with an extreme level of self absorption has led to subject being complicit in multiple deaths inclusive of several teen acquaintances, numerous law enforcement and military personnel, as well as several MHMR clinical staff members. Subject is to be considered exremely dangerous.

**RECOMMENDATION: **Involuntary commitment for an unspecified duration for purposes of observation and treatment. It is this expert's professional opinion that subject is currently not psychologically competent to stand trial, nor able to manage her own affairs. Further, based upon both clinical observation and the recorded evidence, the subject's violent outbursts and homicidal tendencies indicate that she presents a very clear and present danger both to herself and to society as a whole. (See the attached Sunnydale County Law Enforcement incident report describing the subject's recent attempts to escape confinement.)

**ATTENDING PHYSICIAN:** Dr. Margaret Walsh, MD., DPM.

* * *

_Monday, November 3, 1997: __Sunnydale MHMR__, Topanga Street, Sunnydale city limits, Afternoon 4:00pm –_

"ooohhh... "

And, crap. What hit me?

Oh. That. Some sort of weird, awful, painful thing. Like a bright flash... Ow, ow, ow. Goddamn that hurts. All over, but especially the head.

So. Maggie's boys have a long range version of that stun pain wand cattle prod thing, huh? Good to know. Just so _not_ good finding out about it the hard way.

And, dammit all to hell. She was _almost_ gone from here. _Just_ had needed past the electronic doors and out through intake and receptions, dammit.

So, how long was she out? Ah, hell. Didn't matter.

In a bed, in a room, and, duh, strapped down and in restraints again. And, of course, naked. Fuck 'em.

She had nearly escaped stark naked and unarmed once already, with nothing but a tiny pixie for a weapon, and two more as a diversion. She could do it again.

A pity that she hadn't gotten to kill Walsh before she went down. Shoulda gone looking for her hidey hole.

Bet they were a lot more careful from now on. _And_ she'd bet they were a bit less gropey.

Naw. Idiots like that never learned. They always blamed the victim when one of said victims got fed up, decided not to take it any more, and decided to fight back, even to the death. Wah! It's not fair! _You're_ supposed to roll over and _let_ us pick on you.

Just like a damned schoolyard bully.

Fuck you. Newsflash. Some of us aren't doormats. Film at eleven.

Some of us don't care what kind of writs and warrants and shiny badges and supposed authority you have. _Some_ of us think that thugs with _badges_ and uniforms are just another kind of _bully_, and you bleed just like the ones _without_. And die just like them, too.

They were, no doubt, going to take this out of her ass. Thugs and bullies always do.

Gods. She hoped that Pooka Bell got away, and wasn't hurt. So was _not_ gonna try to call her and find out. Not yet.

And, oh, gods... please, please, _please_ Xander. Stay away from these people. Stay _away_ from this insane bitch. Get killed on me, and I swear I am coming in after you and _taking_ you back. I didn't spend nearly eleven years to get to this point just to have you go and _die_ on me. _I_ am _not_ going to die on _you_.

Maggie Walsh is. Sooner or later.

Closing her eyes again, Cordelia Chase attempted to get at least semi comfortable and try to get some more sleep. She had the feeling it was going to be a long, long night, and a long several days after it.

* * *

_Monday, November 3, 1997: __South Marion Drive Sunnydale Medical Complex__, Sunnydale, Afternoon 4:30pm –_

Grrff. But, except for having a mouth like an ash tray, and a slight throb in her ankle and her forearm, Michaela Reeves felt surprisingly good.

Amazing what at least eight hours sleep will do for you. She glanced at the wall clock in the room. Ok, eight hours and forty-five minutes. Groovy.

"I see you're awake, dead person," her Zoomie Colonel said.

"Yup. The dead walk," Michaela said. "Or at least rise from their graves in preparation for walking." So saying, she unfolded herself from around her .416 caliber snuggly toy, and sat up. Slowly and carefully.

Cool. She figured she might actually survive standing in a little while.

Zoomie Colonel handed her a to go cup of coffee. Warm, rather than hot, but serviceable. She sipped at it, noting that he had one of his own, and was dressed back into a clean set of Air Force black fatigues.

"How long you been up? And how'd you know when I would be?" Michaela said, gratefully sucking down more coffee.

Brockhurst snorted. "As long as we've both been in? I've noticed that the habit of sleeping just about eight hours uninterrupted, and very little more or less gets ingrained for some types of us. I figured you were one of them. And, about thirty minutes longer than you."

Michaela nodded. Glancing over at the other bed with the still apparently either sleeping or unconscious Harris, she said, "Developments?"

"Why, yes. And you are not going to like several of them," Brockhurst said, his face set like granite. "I know, because I am not very fond of at least one of them."

"I haven't liked most developments over the past twenty four hours, Colonel," Michaela said. "Hit me."

"You asked for it."

Brockhurst's report was concise, in very plain and simple language, and left nothing to the imagination. Michaela was quiet for a long time, and then she nodded carefully, and had some more coffee. Finishing her cup, she pointed at the other unopened one, and said, mildly, "Is that one for me also?"

Nodding, Brockhurst handed it to her, and said, "I am amazed."

"What, you expected me to jump out of bed screaming, grab my battle rifle, and charge off in my underwear to the rescue?"

"Something like that, yes," he said.

"FIIGMO," Michaela said. "Fuck it, I got my orders. There is absolutely nothing I can do about or for Cordelia Chase right at this moment. I am not allowed to, and I have been pointedly _told_ I am not allowed to. Maggie Walsh and Cordelia Chase are off fucking limits to me."

"Ok, now I am worried," Brockhurst said, frowning. "There's a detonation lurking in here somewhere, I just know it."

Michaela grinned at him. There was very little humor in that grin. "Naw. I'm gone icy cold now. Amazing what a quick patch job and eight of forty will do for you. I am centered and lethal now, rather than running on and past the ragged edge like I was all last night."

"Ah. I see."

"Do know this, however," Michaela said. "While I will not go off the rez yet, at some point, Margaret Walsh's immunity will end. And then she will die. I would like to do it with my hands, but slow is not necessary. A hollow point between the eyes from a precision rifle kills them just as dead, and is just as satisfying."

"Ah. _That_ sounds more like the Michaela Reeves I am coming to know and tolerate," Brockhurst said, nodding. "Was worried for a bit. Welcome back, Captain."

"Thank you. And, aww. You missed me?"

"Not so much, no," Brockhurst said, and they both broke out into quiet laughter for a minute or so. "I did mention, I believe, that Chase accounted for at least four of Walsh's goons, a couple or three security guards, and an orderly or two. Inclusive of Umbridge." He snorted softly, "I understand that once they managed to calm her down, Pooka Bell's report was descriptive and very precise."

"I am more and more impressed with those kids," Michaela said. "And I have to say, they scare hell out of me, both _of_, and especially _for_ them."

"Yeah. This isn't the Congo or Côte d'Ivoire," Brockhurst said. "Child soldiers here in the U.S. of A. are disconcerting."

Harris groaned in the next bed, and they both looked over at him. There were no more sounds or movement from him, however. Just more slow and steady breathing.

"Uh huh, they are," Michaela said. "Just recall, though: Farragut was awarded his first prize command for valor in combat at age twelve. Audie Murphy enlisted at seventeen, and _would_ have at fifteen or sixteen if they'd of let him. Child soldiers are not a new thing. I just hate to see kids grow up that fast, and that hard."

"We all do."

"And, did I happen to mention that I really, really like that Chase girl," Michaela said.

"It may have crossed your lips once or twice, yes," Brockhurst said.

"Yeah. Civilian, hell. She was _born_ to be one of the Black Company."

"What? Insubordinate, stubborn, too dense to know when she's outgunned, dangerous and outright homicidal?" Brockhurst said, smiling.

"And those are her good qualities," Michaela said, smiling back. "Other developments, please. Now that I am semi awake."

"All right, in précis form," Brockhurst said. "Pooka also came back with a message for Harris from Chase. I have it written down. Harris woke briefly, twice. Doctors and nurses checked him over both times, somehow without waking you. They believe that he'll be able to be moved safely tomorrow evening if he continues to improve."

"Groovy. Means we can move him unsafely before that if an emergency arises tomorrow," Michaela said, nodding. "Next?"

"Both times he went back under without speaking, and without seeming to be really aware. Not unusual in blast concussion cases, I'm given to understand. Your Major also awoke briefly, I understand. Your Master Sergeant has not, as of yet. And, your two backups and your legal advisors arrived shortly after I got the call from Aura."

"Also groovy."

"They have been spelling your MP guards here off and on," Brockhurst said. "Also, my chopper is back, along with some of my gear and assorted items, fully fueled and prepped. Ammo was located and brought for your big rifle, handgun, and my rifle in trust. I did not ask where it was acquired from. Thought it safer not to know. And, finally, our meeting is set for eight PM, civilian time."

"Probably right on that. You give good précis, Colonel," Michaela said. "Ok. I'm gonna throw on some old, comfortable battle dress, and then let's go meet my new pet killers and my JAG and CID weenies."

"Can hardly wait."

"And _then_ I need food, a shower, more coffee, and some real clothes, not necessarily in that order."

Michaela slid out of bed, and began going through the items that her MP guys had scrounged for her. For all of her talk of not wanting Air Farce to see her in her OD skivvies, she didn't bother being coy or modest. Wasn't the way that troops in a combat zone acted, male or female.

If Brockhurst wanted to catch a thrill from it, more power to him.

Michaela hadn't fully decided whether she wanted to take him for a tumble at some point or not, yet, anyway. Girls will be boys, and boys will be girls, even on the battle field, and fuck it. He wasn't a subordinate, nor in her chain of command, anyway.

* * *

.


	8. Operating Orders and Disordered Operatio

**Chapter Sixty: Operating Orders and Disordered Operations...**

* * *

_Monday, November 3, 1997: __South Marion Drive Sunnydale Medical Complex__, Sunnydale, Evening 5:00pm –_

If Abbot and Costello were lethal killers, then Michaela Reeves' comment about her backups being a comedy duo would have had its apt points.

Janet Moseby was very tall – six foot two-and-a-half if she was an inch – very tanned, very fit, very toned, and very Nordic looking. Not surprisingly since she came from one of the heavily Norska parts of Minnesota, Reeves couldn't remember which part just offhand. Late twenties to early thirties. She had pale blonde hair, and the palest green eyes that Reeves had ever seen on a human being.

She was also one of the best shots that Michaela Reeves knew of, long or short range, handgun, shotgun, or rifle, bar none. Not even the supposedly late Lieutenant Barkley had been a better combat pistol shot. She was _almost_ as fast as Barkley or Michaela, as well. And she was damned near as good at CQC and a better technical martial artist than Michaela was.

Gilbert Merrill was just the opposite.

He was about five foot eight by five foot nine, and built like a fireplug, with some of the broadest shoulders Michaela had ever personally seen. Mid to late thirties. He had black hair – mats of it all over his body as far as Michaela knew – pale blue eyes, a brow ridge, a permanent seven 'o clock shadow, a broad, mobile, and expressive mouth, and a homely enough face to make Ernest Borgnine look like a matinee idol. With his too long and muscular for that torso arms, and a bit too short for his body slightly bowed legs, Merrill looked like nothing more or less than the human personification of Monk from the old Robeson Doc Savage novels that Reeves had been hooked on as a kid.

If there was actually a stronger living normal human being, Michaela Reeves didn't want to meet him. Gil Merrill could bend quarters neatly in half between his thumbs and forefingers. He had the freakishly dense musculature of the male silver-back gorilla he so strongly resembled.

He was also, without a doubt, the Black Company's best sneak. Reeves would never understand how someone with that build and that mass could move as quietly as Merrill could, but not even Bravo team's Chelsey or Cheng could outdo him as a scout. Or as a quiet killer. Death in the night...

If the two of them had worked for the mob, they'd be hit men. Since they worked for the United States Military, they were assassins. Very, very good assassins, and in more than one sense of the word 'good'.

"Gil, Jan, heya," Michaela said, grinning broadly. She accepted the hands they both extended, rapped them on the back with the knuckles of her other one – ow and damn that helo crash – and nodded to the pair. "Groovy. I can sleep soundly now."

"Damn, Chief," Brockhurst said. "You sleep any more soundly than you were earlier, and we're going to have to monitor you for vital signs and brain activity."

"_Captain_," Michaela said, and nodded. "And wounded and exhausted with known friendlies guarding don't count." Jerking her head to the dynamic duo, she said, "Captain Janet Moseby and First Louie Gilbert Merrill. Two of the most dangerous people you never wanna meet in a dark alley."

"Or a brightly lit one, either," Merrill said, his eyes scanning Brockhurst curiously. "Air Farce, all the way. Who's the fellow fly boy, Mickey?"

"Brevet Lieutenant right now, Mickey," Moseby said, giving her a slight ironic half bow. "And yeah, we met Air Force here briefly upon our arrival, but it wasn't a full introduction."

Acknowledging the bow and the correction with a nod, Michaela said, "Ah. This is Lieutenant Colonel William Brockhurst, USAF, former AFSOC, out of Vandy." Michaela continued, "He's a shit hot combat pilot I adopted after I found out I wasn't gonna have to kill 'im to borrow his helo." She dropped her voice to a stage whisper, adding, "He doesn't know it yet, but I'm recruiting him from the Zoomies."

Brockhurst snorted. "Somehow, that tidbit hasn't escaped me, Captain Chief," he said, dryly.

"Damn. Did I think that out loud?"

"Damn, Mickey, you do have a way with making friends and influencing people," Moseby said, shaking her head. "Keep telling you, you should shift over to the Marauders. Way you like to destroy property and wax people, you'd fit right in."

"Heya, I'm not too proud to state when I'm not ready to run with the big dogs," Michaela said. "I'll just sit here on the porch and watch, thank yew."

"Ok, now I'm frightened," Brockhurst said. "If they're _more_ dangerous than you are, Michaela, we may as well just pull the plug on SoCal now."

"Last one outta the state, turn off the lights, yeah," Merrill said, nodding energetically. "You wouldn't want to _live_ on the difference, fly boy, but we _are_ marginally more lethal."

"And modest, too," Moseby said.

"So, fellow fly boy?" Brockhurst said, curiously. "You were one of the few, the proud, the Chair Force as well, once?"

"Well, I could tell you that," Merrill said, smiling cheerfully, "But then I'd have to- oops. Sorry, I get my scripts mixed up sometimes. Well, I hesitate to admit it with the Lethal Leg and the Jar Head here, but sadly, I was once AFSOC. And a shit hot Hot Iron Jockey to boot."

"And then he saw the light and joined up with us Perverts in the Trenches," Moseby said.

"Sing it, sister," Michaela said.

"More like I was in danger of getting kicked out of AFSOC on a psyche eval for insisting that some sailor with bad dentures and yellow glowing eyes had been trying to suck my blood," Merrill said, "And _they_ kept insisting I should fess up that it was something _else_ he wanted to suck – and oh, by the way, where did you hide the body, Captain? And then our good Colonel made me an offer I couldn't comprehend, and one demotion and a transfer later, here I am, surrounded by Squids and Grunts. Woe is me."

Smiling at Merrill's rather apt description of his recruitment, Michaela said, "And this is Lieutenant Commander Deacon Briggs, our JAG weenie, and Chief Warrant Officer Katie Bell, our resident CID spook, or one of them."

Deacon Briggs was tall, very black, in about his late thirties, with black hair and dark eyes. He had a rangy fit kind of build, and was wearing his Navy Whites. Bell was small, Caucasian, around five five or so, wiry and very dark looking, both hair and eyes, and had that indefinable 'cop' look despite the Army Class A's she was wearing.

"Michaela, Lt. Colonel," Briggs said. "Brevet Captain ma'am, I'm given to understand that you've managed to kick over quite a hornet's nest out here."

"Do tell," Michaela said. "Matter of fact, we can take a seat over here, and you and Bell _can_ tell me. I've been kind of on the sharp end and out of the loop here for around twenty four hours or so."

Michaela grabbed a Coke out of the vending machine by the elevators, and they all took seats around a low table in the little waiting lounge at the end of the hallway, down from Harris' room.

"First off," Briggs said. "Your papers confirming your most likely temporary combat commission and brevet promotion. Your insignia are inside the envelope. Congratulations and my deepest condolences, Captain Reeves."

"Thanks," Michaela said, her voice dry, accepting the envelope. She shook out the collar insignia and left the patches in for now. "I'll probably need em. What else you bring me, Unca Briggsy?"

"Orders, authorization, documentation, and more orders," Briggs said. "Here you go." He passed over a narrow sheaf of papers. "I'll summarize, in brief: Colonel Danvers sends her congratulations on a badly hosed up job well done, along with the traditional reward."

"Another fucking job!" Moseby, Merrill, and Michaela chorused, laughing.

Briggs and Bell grinned at her, nodding. "In short, yes. The Colonel also says that she is not unhappy with your performance to date, even though a large number of other people seem to be. You are ordered and authorized, to wit, to continue to take all necessary measures to safeguard your person of interest, and to attempt to get to the bottom of ascertaining just precisely what has occurred in this peculiar little town and to resolve it. Said measures not necessarily falling short of having your fly boy here drop a J-DAM on City Hall, if needed."

Brockhurst blinked, and Michaela said, "Day-um. Someone done pissed the Colonel off, huh?"

"She is mildly annoyed, yes. She does not appreciate her people getting killed because they were fed half-assed intel and then put in a situation where they deem it necessary to scrub an op at the near to last moment and go improvisational with results that are less than optimal and deleterious to the health of their command. Unfortunately, our esteemed mad doctor has very low friends in very high places, and she and her project are listed as hands off for the moment."

"Dammit. I was looking forward to strafing her into road kill," Michaela said.

"You may yet get your chance to slip your leash, but not at this time, Mickey," Briggs said. "Bell and I are going to be looking hard at the available options. However, while Doctor Director Walsh has very highly placed friends who like her little black ops project and have high hopes for it, all of whom are deemed critical to the political survival of our current Philanderer in Chief's administration... There are a number of equally highly placed people, including our very own Chief of Staff of the Army and the Chairman of the Senate Armed Services Committee who don't particularly like having _their_ pet dark project screwed with. Not to mention assorted opposition Congress-critters, a couple of sympathetic old spooks, and the General of the Army of the United States."

Brockhurst blinked again at that.

"Who don't necessarily outweigh the bright boys high up behind DARPA, the Secretary of Defense, and the head of the State Department, and Director of the CIA, not that they are in any way whatsoever involved with Herr Doctor Walsh and her project," Bell added.

"Ah. So we are caught in the middle of an administrative pissing match," Michaela said, nodding. She finished carefully reading over the sheaf of orders, and moved onto the next thing in the pile, and her eyes widened. She said, "Holy shit! A Letter of fucking Marque and fucking _Reprisal_?"

Brockhurst blinked. "I didn't know they even issued those any more."

"Me, either," Michaela said, shaking her head in amazement. She began reading the document over carefully, committing it to memory.

"It may have escaped your notice, especially way out at Vandenberg, Colonel," Bell said, "But on Halloween night here in Sunnydale Harbor and the local yacht basin, there was an actual naval engagement between two, count 'em, two fully rigged pirate vessels and elements of the Sunnydale Harbor patrol and the Sunnydale County Sheriff's department's beach patrol. A harbor patrol vessel and a Sheriff's patrol boat were sunken by cannon fire during an engagement, and the other harbor patrol vessel was damaged and had to withdraw. Additionally, the police and sheriff's department had a full-blown shooting engagement on shore with land elements of the pirate crew, and numerous acts of land piracy and brigandry."

Michaela nodded. "We watched a lot of news video footage on the plane ride out. A Santa Barbara news chopper caught most of the engagement on tape. And a local detective and his partner encountered and had a shooting engagement with one of the land crew, killing four, who were in the process of bringing a chain of, ah, female prizes back to their ship. Reportedly not the first such transport they had done that evening."

"And the Coasties didn't come in and put them down?" Brockhurst said, shaking his head.

"A coast guard heavy cutter was en route to do just that when both vessels sailed into a sudden fog bank," Briggs said, "Reportedly, and then vanished."

"_Fog?_ What about radar?" Brockhurst said.

"They apparently vanished off the scopes as well, simultaneously."

"Amazing. PFM. Pure fucking magic," Michaela said, "And I mean that literally."

"Indeed. While it is deemed unlikely that a recurrence will be observed," Briggs said, "It was decided that it was best to cover all the bases. Use it well and wisely, Captain."

Michaela grinned, and set the letter aside, almost reverently. "I'm getting a photostat made of that when we're done, and having it matted and framed for my bragging wall," she said. "Assuming I ever get an office." She moved on to the next set of documents, and started laughing.

"We _thought_ you might enjoy that, Mickey," Bell said.

"What?" Brockhurst said, his eyebrows going up. Michaela waved a hand at the papers, laughing too hard to answer him.

"Something that Director Doctor Walsh isn't going to like very much," Briggs said, grinning. "Writs specifying that Miss Cordelia Desiree Chase is subject to being produced for inspection, interview, and examination at a moment's notice to any lawful authority who wishes to converse with her, including us."

"And that she had best be in perfect health when that occurs, and not have been moved one single foot from Sunnydale MHMR or wherever she is currently being held for evaluation," Bell stated, "Sunnydale Mental Health and Mental Rehabilitation being our best guesstimate and best intel at the moment. Also stating that one Alexander Lavelle Harris is attached to an unspecified military unit, to wit, the Black Company, with the rank of Civilian Advisor, and has been for over a year, and therefore is hands off and off limits to the Doctor Director."

"Or else the Hammer of Thor comes down on Call-me-Maggie fucking Walsh," Michaela said, finally winding down. "Legally speaking."

"Which might not be of any comfort to Miss Chase, if things go badly beforehand," Brockhurst said, his expression grim. "Or Mr. Harris."

"True enough."

"We may not be able to shut down Dr. Walsh's little black project, nor may we be able to currently deal with her in the manner in which we would prefer," Briggs said, "But we _can_ make it _not_ easy for her."

"Cordelia Desiree Chase is also a civilian advisor affiliated with the Company, and has been for an equal amount of time, straight out of joining JROTC at Sunnydale High in late April '96," Briggs said, nodding, "Hence the fact that she had best be treated well while in custody. It may not make an impression on Walsh, but it will give pause to those behind and above her."

"Gonna need copies of those to give to my MP brigade," Michaela said. Setting them aside, she moved onto the last in the stack. Her eyes widened again, and she said, "Holy shit. Holy fucking shit. Is this for real?"

"It is," Briggs said, his face and his voice somber. "Step very carefully with that, Mickey. It is inflammable and highly explosive. And use it wisely."

"What?" Brockhurst said, trying to read the papers upside down. Michaela held them so he could see, and his eyes widened. "Oh, my God. They gave _you_ a license to kill? Double Oh Reeves?"

"Jesus Christ, you weren't joking when you said up to and including 'dropping a J-DAM on city hall', huh?" Michaela said. "Gee, Colonel Zoomie, say hello to the new fucking Military Commandant of the City and County of Sunnydale. And any and all environs that fall within my remit and the necessities required in the performance of my duties."

"My God. I am speechless."

"Posse Comitatus does _not_ allow elements of the United States Military to engage in LEO and peacekeeping activities on U.S. soil, except under very limited and _specific_ circumstances as stated and implied by the Insurrection Act of 1807 and its _intent_," Briggs said. "And the Black Company is _scrupulous_ about observing such legalities, except within _very_ limited rules of engagement during the events of an actual hostile attack or incursion upon American soil by non-U.S. forces and such forces as described by the Act."

"And Sunnydale currently qualifies on all counts," Michaela said, nodding.

"For the duration of the declaration of civil emergency and breakdown of local ability to exercise legal and lawful civilian command and control," Briggs said, "Said duration to be determined by you, Michaela, unless and _until_ you are overruled by higher authority."

"It was apparently determined that while Michaela's actions to date have been acceptable under the circumstances, rules of engagement, and heat of the emergency," Bell said, "That she was in danger of exceeding her latitude and authorization now that the heat had passed somewhat."

"So they increased her latitude and authorization," Brockhurst said, shaking his head with his eyes still wide.

"All the way to the fucking walls," Michaela said, her expression grim.

"And you were complaining that you weren't getting any support from command, Captain," Brockhurst said, smiling.

"Heh. It is a mixed blessing, Colonel Flyboy, sir," Michaela said, smiling back. "Effectively, I'm being told that as long as the right people are happy with my performance, handling, and resolution of the situation, I am fucking golden. But if they are not, then may all the misbegotten gods help me for no one else will."

"You are apparently golden with someone at the moment," Brockhurst said, "Also apparently, you have a really solid commander."

"It's why I wasn't too concerned about going off the rez in the heat last night, Colonel Light," Michaela said, her eyes narrowed. "_My_ orders come from Major Buckley. _His_ orders come directly from Colonel Danvers. _Her_ orders come from an assistant star to the current Chief of Staff of the Army, Joint Chiefs of Staff, who gets _his_ from the current General of the Army, United States of America, where they originate. One step below the very _top_ of the chain."

"We habitually are tasked with engaging enemies who are not only outside of the normal rules of engagement," Briggs said, "But they are also outside of the normal community of nation states in every single sense of the phrase, Colonel. As such, the Black Company _requires_ a certain degree of latitude and flexibility. Commensurate responsibility in the application of that latitude and flexibility is required, also."

"Understood," Lieutenant Colonel Brockhurst said. Looking at Michaela, he said, "So, had you deemed it necessary to shoot me and my pilot and gunner last night and _take_ my helo?"

"I would have done so, not lost a moment's sleep over it, and probably have gotten a slap on the wrist afterward and a quiet attaboy," Michaela said, smiling. "'We are not playing any more', is more than just a nifty turn of phrase. It is a statement that we are going to get the fucking job done: no matter who or what gets in the way, no matter who dies in the process. Even if it happens to be us."

"On occasion, Colonel fellow Fly Boy," Merrill said, speaking for the very first time since Michaela and the JAG and CID officer had begun to converse, "Our job is critical to the existence of Continental North America. Sometimes, to the existence of the human species. It's not a business for the faint of heart or weak of stomach."

"We take this shit seriously, Colonel," Michaela said, nodding. "Our job is to protect civilians and the innocent from things that you can't imagine, and that other people don't want to admit or even know exist. It's why we're so adamantly against other branches and agencies going off the rez and playing games with our own citizens and bystanders."

"Yeah, we ain't real well liked in SOG and a few other places," Moseby said. "Which is cool, as _we_ don't particularly like them that works for the CIA Special Activities Division, our ownselves."

"So, where do I sign up?" Brockhurst said.

"With me, assuming you're serious. I'll sponsor you," Michaela said. "You'll probably have to swallow taking a brevet to Major, for chain of command purposes. Because, I want you for Bravo Group, seeing as how even if and when Buckley is on his feet again, we are still gonna have to rebuild our team almost from the ground up."

"I was and am," Brockhurst said. "I think I've been looking for an outfit like this for my entire adult career."

"Good. Can always use a shit hot combat pilot with AFSOC experience," Michaela said. "We'll work out the details later. You will, however, have to get down in the mud behind rifle sights on occasion. We don't accept pussies in this command."

"I'll try to adapt to losing my air conditioned bunk," Brockhurst said, his voice arid. "Besides, you don't know how many times I've wanted to shoot an annoying prick of a commanding officer and just get a slap on the pee pee for it." Everyone laughed, and nodded.

"It's a tough job, but it do have its compensations," Moseby said.

Briggs and Bell waited out the exchange with slight smiles. "Be advised, Captain, that there is something very off, hinky, and fishy about this idyllic little hamlet. Hence the extraordinary latitude."

"Gee, somehow, that hasn't yet managed to slip by me, Briggsy," Michaela said, "Considering that there is a fucking Hell Maw under the freaking high school, and not one, but two, count 'em, _two_, Slayers on site."

All four of the newcomers blinked, and looked at each other, going suddenly expressionless.

"I see..." Briggs said, carefully and slowly. "That was not included in the briefing materials."

"Again, gee, I wonder why," Michaela said. "One might suspect that our Colonel was not aware and was not informed. Possibly, neither was higher command."

"An _active_ Hellsgate? Or _in_active?" Moseby said, scowling.

"Active as all shit, I'm given to understand," Michaela said. "Makes the Cleveland Hell Maw look like a steam vent."

"Holy fucking shit, Mickey," Moseby said. "How _do_ you manage to land in these situations on such a regular basis?"

"I am truly _blessed_ with suck, is all I can come up with," Michaela said, grinning mirthlessly. "Welcome to the fucking party, pals."

"Sigh. Sucks to be you. And us."

Michaela nodded, grinning mirthlessly at the taller woman. "Okay, Merrill, Mose. Q&A time for _me_. I've heard the title and the descriptive, but I am a wee bit unclear on the particulars here, and that is not only beginning to be a bit irritating, but a more than a bit debilitating to my efforts. Just what _precisely_ is our less-than-esteemed Doctor Call-me-Maggie Walsh the 'Doctor Director' _of_, dammit?"

"Must admit to some curiosity of my own on that," Brockhurst said, nodding.

Merrill and Moseby exchanged glances, and shrugs before looking back at her. Michaela held up a hand, forestalling an immediate response. "Note: I know that she is the Director of something called the 'Defense Research Initiative', which tells me very little, and that she is engaged in research into something called 'The Future Soldier Initiatives'. However, that doesn't answer a lot of my questions with specifics." Michaela gave a frustrated huff, and practically growled, "At this point, I am a data analyst with limited data and an intelligence gatherer with no intelligence."

She fixed Merrill with a look that had 'get it out of your system' clearly written all over it and waited expectantly.

The hirsute man chuckled and nodded, saying, "We have noticed, but we've forborne from saying anything to that effect."

"Yeah," Moseby drawled, her eyes twinkling, "Mom always said it was impolite to poke fun at the mentally challenged."

Michaela snickered, and nodded. "And now that we are past the obligatory wisecracks portion of your performance... ?" She raised her eyebrows.

"We have that information for you, Mickey," Briggs put in, nodding, and continued with, "But I must warn you that you are _not_ going to like it."

"I will state clearly and categorically for the record, Briggs, that I have liked very little if anything since Dixon ate a forty mike mike armor piercing HEI grenade in front of the Summers home," Michaela said, her eyes gone hard and flat. Briggs winced slightly and made an acknowledging gesture. Michaela inclined her head and said, "Hit me."

With occasional interjections and clarifications from Briggs and Bell, they did, Merrill and Moseby speaking in terse and unadorned language and phrasing. At some length.

When they were done, Michaela blinked, blinked again, and then repeated her performance from earlier in the day with a few new languages added in for seasoning and pungency. At length.

Brockhurst looked at her a bit askance and more than a bit admiringly. "I am impressed. I don't believe you repeated yourself once in all of that." He gestured toward Merrill and Moseby while looking at her, adding, "I understood most of that, but I am apparently missing relevant bits. Enlightenment to be forthcoming?"

"Hoo boy," Merrill said. "You are gonna be sorry you asked, Fly Boy."

Moseby nodded, and said, "Captain Mickey already is."

Michaela's lips flattened and skinned out away from her teeth in something that couldn't even be remotely mistaken for a smile. "Oh, my yes. Someone has been a very naughty group of boys and gurls." Sighing, she shook her head, closing her eyes briefly. When they opened and fixed on Brockhurst, they were bleak and devoid of warmth and expression. "Back in the early days of World War II, Colonel, Hitler was obsessed with the supernatural, and with mysticism in general. He began a large number of projects that were designed to harness those forces and incorporate them into the arsenal of the Third Reich... what was euphemistically known in certain elevated Nazi circles as the 'Forever Reich.'"

"Around late 1942," Merrill inserted seamlessly, "Several of those projects threatened to come to a head."

"And in their infinite lack of wisdom," Michaela stated, "The War Department of the United States and a number of Cabinet level people in the administration determined to ignore the best advice of our allies in Great Britain and formulate a response. That response became the 'Demon Research Initiative.'"

"Which was designed, among other things, to create Super Soldiers for use in combating the controlled supernaturals that the Reich was working on being able to put into the field," Moseby said, nodding.

"It got out of hand, _badly_," Michaela said. "A unit of the Crown's Hellguard Regiment and a full combat team of the Devil's Brigade _died_ putting that mess to rest. A small American town ceased to exist in the process, population and all."

Brockhurst whistled softly, and arched his eyebrows. "The town located near the research facility that melted down?"

"Got it in one, Colonel Zoomie," Michaela said, nodding. "The American Mordgruppe, Department M, was tasked with shutting down the German project by any means necessary. They succeeded. The Black Company in its first iteration was born of that debacle in 1947 – it led _directly_ to the foundation of the Company."

"And the United States Government made an informal, binding, and completely off the records agreement with the British Crown," Moseby said, nodding again, "To forswear any research attempts to control the supernatural for military purposes. Period, end of statement."

"Someone didn't get the memo," Michaela said, her lips peeling back again, "Or else ignored it. Someone gave Dr. Walsh a budget, authorization, and a license to experiment. The DRI – Defense Research Initiative – is a polite euphemism for the Demon Research Initiative. I'd bet money."

Brockhurst shook his head a bit ruefully, eying Michaela. "I really did fall into the Rabbit Hole when I asked you if you had lead in your boots, huh?"

"Oh, my stars and garters yes, Colonel," Merrill said, starting to laugh. "Done tripped and tumbled head first through the Looking Glass."

"You bet. You'da been better off letting me shoot you and steal your helo," Michaela said, grinning at him. "But it all adds up now. The Future Soldier Initiative project. Walsh's secret and not so cleverly hidden base atop an active fucking Hell's Maw. Her interest in acquiring the Terminator for dissection, and Creed. Her people's apparent surveillance of Buffy Summers little group of supernatural vigilantes. Her insistence on acquiring Chase and Harris for intelligence purposes."

Brockhurst nodded, his expression grim. "Given my understanding of things, Alexander Harris would be an invaluable information and data resource to mine. And Chase."

"Chase, less so," Michaela said, looking thoughtful, "But Harris, yes. And Chase is a handle and leverage on Harris." She grinned mirthlessly again, adding, "And now we know why the Joint Chiefs gave a mere brevet Captain the authority to declare Martial Law and a Writ for creating Letters of Marque and Reprisal. We are not playing any more."

"Yeppers, Mickey," Merrill said, nodding, "This shit done got serious. Woe is us."

"They want Doctor Director Walsh shut _down_," Michaela said, slowly. "And they want it done in a way that does not advertise that the United States has opened the Black Files again and violated the Hellsgate Protocols."

"And they picked you to do it," Brockhurst said.

"By virtue of me being the only semi-operational member of the Company left on the ground standing," Michael said, nodding. "Lucky me."

"I foresee terrible troubles," Bell intoned.

"Agreed," Michaela said, smiling a bit grimly. Cocking an eyebrow at Briggs, she fixed him with a jaundiced stare. "This do just explain a lot, don't it?"

"It surely does, Brevet Captain," Briggs said, nodding gravely. "Our esteemed Colonel sends you her regards and best wishes, and in and amongst your other duties, wishes for you to enjoy the opportunity to – in the very best traditions of the service – see the world, soak up the exotic local ambiance, and meet interesting people and peoples. And if you should so happen to come across an opportunity to do so, do please take the time to revisit Goliad with her blessings."

Michaela stiffened slightly in her seat, and her gaze sharpened upon the JAG officer. And then hardened after a moment and she nodded. "Message received and understood. I am assuming that there are formalities to be observed that accompany those well wishes?"

"There are indeed, Captain," Briggs said, smiling tightly. "To be signed, notarized, and returned forthwith. Accompaniment by a souvenir ashtray and t-shirt optional, I believe."

Brockhurst by this point was frowning and looking between the two of them with increasing puzzlement. "I am going to assume that there is much in the way of subtext that I'm missing here."

"There is indeed, Lieutenant Colonel, sir," Moseby said, nodding. Leaning forward slightly, she patted him on the knee. "Company business. Be advised and assured that the good Captain Commandant will apprise you of the particulars when and if it should become of grave and pertinent import."

"And in the meantime," Brockhurst said, smiling a bit ruefully, "Don't worry my pretty little head about it?"

Moseby's answering smile was full of teeth and devoid of mirth. "I wouldn't have phrased it _quite_ that way, sir, but..."

Nodding, Brockhurst said, "Just be sure to shovel some manure down after you turn out the lights, if you would please."

Michaela favored him with a wry grin that was slightly warmer than Moseby's smile. "All due respect, yata yata, sir. Rest assured that given the way that things here seem to be progressing, the need part of the knowing will present itself soon enough, and no doubt to your everlasting regret."

"Does seem to be that kind of place and situation," Brockhurst said, nodding, "Does it not?"

"All right... Now that the formalities and the info-share are done with, Captain Commandant Michaela sir," Merrill interjected, "What now? Orders? And, don't mind my asking, exactly what the _hell_ is going on in this town?"

"I'll answer what the hell is going on here last." Michaela thought for a minute, then nodded. "All right. One) I get copies of these orders and writs to my MP groupies. And I double the guard. Two) I call Light Colonel Brockhurst's commander and formally requisition him and his whirly bird to be attached to me for the duration. Three) I have Briggsy here make contact with the Mayor's office, the Base Commander at Fort Halleck, Dr. Director Walsh, Interim Chief Stein, County Commissioner, Chairman of the City Council, the City Manager, and the Sunnydale County Sheriff, and call a meeting for tomorrow at Oh-100 to pass on the wonderful news they are gonna love so much."

Merrill nodded. "We brought your Class As and Whites and your kit with us. The Colonel sent it along at the last minute."

"Oh, good. I was feeling near naked with nothing but a battle rifle, one sidearm, and a single knife," Michaela said. "Lost my ess-em-gee and heavy rifle when that fucker blew up my surveillance van, damned near with me in it. And my other handgun when I fell out of the downed Apache. _Last_ fucking time I _ever_ get all pussified about not being comfy in a surveillance van's accommodations and set my weapons kit where I can't grab and go."

"Well, in addition to a really big honking sixgun and an express rifle," Moseby said, eying Michaela's weapons in trust. "You been taking lessons from Lieutenant Barkie?"

"Naw. From my person of interest. Everything worthwhile I've learned recently in this life, I've learned from Cordelia Chase," Michaela said, checking her watch, "And Four) We have a meeting scheduled for oh-2000 with our civilian liaisons and local auxiliaries. You will be fully briefed on the local situation, previous and as it stands, at that meeting."

"Local auxiliaries?" Merrill said, raising his eyebrows.

"Oh yeah," Michaela said, grinning. "You guys are just a gonna _love_ the Sunnydale Irregulars."

* * *

_Monday, November 3, 1997: 3523 Paden Street, Levinson home, Sunnydale, Evening __4__:__3__5pm –_

"So, lemme get this straight," Jonathan was saying. "You went as Dr. Soong, and you, Kimberly, went as Seven of Nine? From Voyager and Next Gen?"

"I did _not_ 'go as'," Seven said, irritably. "I _am_ Seven of Nine, formerly Tertiary Adjunct of Unimatrix Zero-One, currently – " Seven froze, and then nodded finally and reluctantly, "Yes. Your surmise seems to be in order. I am told that I did indeed dress as a character from Voyager, which apparently seems to be some mindless entertainment feature here on this planet."

_Whoa. _Jonathan freaking _Levinson_, short, slightly pudgy Jonathan, sporting the bluest eyes Warren had ever seen on a human being, just gave Seven a Kubrick Stare that froze the words in her throat briefly. Ok, formerly pudgy... there didn't seem to be much left of that now.

"All right. Well, except for the mindless... although Voyager does have some of the usual Star Trek drivel to it," Jonathan said.

"Hey!" Warren began, then reconsidered and shut up before he got one of those terrifying Kubrick Stares for himself. Yeesh. "Never mind, carry on. We can argue the entertainment merits of Star Trek later."

Nodding, Jonathan grinned at him, almost like old times, and said, "Ok, you're probably tired of hearing this by now, Seven, but prior to Halloween night, you _were_ Kimberly Williams, eleventh grade math geek, and reasonably attractive genius. And now, you're obviously _not_."

And again, whoa. _Jonathan_ calling a pretty girl 'reasonably attractive', and not stammering and getting tongue tied? On the other hand, he _did_ go out with Cordelia Chase at least once...

As if he'd been reading Warren's mind, or maybe just his expressions, Jonno said, "There's been some changes here, Warren. As you've probably figured out by now. I'm no longer _just_ Jonathan Levinson any more, any more than you're apparently _just_ Warren Mears." He paused, inclined his head in her direction and fixed those freakish eyes on Seven, and added, "But not _quite_ in the same way that _you_ are no longer Kimberly Williams."

Seven nodded, and some of the frozen and offended cat went out of her expression. "I can accept that. Although I assure you, I have no memory of ever having been this Kimberly person."

"You're not the only one in this town," Jonathan said, "So don't feel alone in that. And, you don't look so much like Kim any more either. More like a... really close fraternal twin resemblance. You're taller, blonde instead of brown haired, and, uh, built more like a Playboy bunny than she was. And you have Seven's arrogance."

Seven inclined her head and smirked slightly. "I have noticed the effect that my appearance seems to have on human males, yes."

Warren felt himself color a brick red, and Jonathan smirked back at her. "Well, yeah. Especially teen age males, and geeks in particular. You don't have to worry about me, though. I have a girlfriend."

"Wait, uh, you and, uh, Tamara now?" Warren said, blinking.

Jonathan shrugged. "She decided to keep me for awhile, and take me for a test drive and kick the tires a bit. I'm, uh, kinda okay with that."

Well, yeah, and _duh! _What guy _wouldn't_ be? "Okay, I can deal with that," Warren said. "And you were... ?"

"Corporal Audie Murphy, United States Army."

Just flat like that, no braggadocio or nothing. And, whoa. That explained the freaky eyes, and the total lack of fear and stammering and shifty gaze and head ducking, too. Warren gulped nervously and made a mental note: do _not_ fuck with Jonathan Levinson ever again. _Ever_.

"Wow."

"Yeah. Okay... so, you both were at the Bronze when Blaisdell came in and shot up the place, and Xander Harris rescued Cordelia right from under his guns, right?" Jonathan said.

"Yes," Seven said, and Warren nodded vigorously.

"Yeah, but not as myself. We scrammed out the door as soon as it was apparent he wasn't paying attention to our side of the room," Warren said.

"Smart move," Jonathan said. "That got ugly. _Real_ ugly. Okay, and now you, what... ?"

"Want _in_, Jonathan. Ground floor," Warren said, his voice and expression earnest. "I know that you know some of the library crowd, and we've figured out what they really _do_ here. I want _in_ as a good guy. We can be _useful_, man."

"Yes. Except that it was primarily Warren who deduced the particulars along with the gist of what occurred on Halloween," Seven said. Warren waved it off, feeling a bit embarrassed.

"Huh." Jonathan went all distant and thoughtful looking for a few minutes, and then said. "All right. I need to tell you a story. And then I need to call a few people. Tam, uh... Tor, and Heidi I think for starters. And then you guys are coming to a meeting with us tonight at Tam's home."

"Wait, Tor and Heidi? Hauer and _Barrie_?" Two of the most terrifying to geeks and nerds people in human _existence_ Tor and _Heidi_? Yikes! Warren felt a massive disorientation as events suddenly felt like they were speeding up and flooding along with him far faster than he had any hope of controlling. "And, uh, meeting?"

Jonathan fixed those disconcerting eyes on Warren, and nodded. "Yeah. Don't know how much news you've been following the past couple of days, but there's been some changes in Sunnydale. And there's about to be some more, I think. _Big_ ones."

"Uh, not much?" Warren said. "We've been mostly busy doing research."

"Well, let's just say that," Jonathan said, smiling oddly, "You guys picked interesting times to jump in with both feet. In the Chinese curse sense of the term."

Yipe. Warren gulped, swallowed hard, and nodded, smiling weakly.

* * *

_Monday, November 3, 1997: 2315 E. Chestnut Street, Suite 210A, Sunnydale, Evening 5:45pm -_

"So, whattya think?" Shelia said in an entirely too cheerful voice. "Cool, huh?"

"Huh," Joel Garrity looked around. He leaned forward, propping all six-foot-five of himself on the six-and a-half foot length of fire swept desert ironwood he'd cut the day before, out in Breaker's Wood.

It was a rather unprepossessing, beat-up looking, three-and-a-half room office suite on the third (and top) floor of an equally unprepossessing older office building off of Chestnut Street, a bit off the main drag in downtown Sunnydale. There'd been a kinda grungy, graffiti strewn staircase leading up from the lobby, and a rickety looking old style elevator that not even Shelia had wanted to try. The office suite was also graffiti marked, looked like it had, or had had some rats nesting in the kitchenette alcove, and had a broken widow at the front, overlooking the hallway.

But at least the electricity seemed to work... once they'd installed the light bulbs Shelia had brought along.

"Gonna need some work," the dark haired girl that Shelia had brought with her, or maybe vice versa, said. Amy nodded, looking around a bit dubiously.

"But at least the rent's perfect," Shelia said. "And Joel Dresden here's office is on a corner with a kind of a view, if you squint and use the term 'view' loosely."

Today, instead of her leather shorts and fishnets, Sheila wore a pair of black yoga pants, combat boots, and a gray sleeveless tee over a black long-sleeved t-shirt, with a long, black, swallowtail suit coat over that. With her hair spiked up and her pale complexion, she looked like an extra in a Crow remake.

"Uh huh," Amy said, nodding. "Mostly of paved lots and other decrepit office buildings."

"You don't like it," Shelia said, scowling. She seemed to deflate a bit.

"I didn't say that," Joel said. "I didn't say anything, actually."

"That you did not," Shelia said, nodding and suddenly brightening again. "So, whatcha think?"

"It has potential," Joel allowed. Diplomatically, he didn't say what he thought the potential was for. Fire hazard, maybe...

"It does, really!" Shelia said, nodding. Joel had to grin at that. Shelia's enthusiasm was almost infectious.

"It's an abandoned building," the new girl said, frowning.

Joel looked at her harder, and snapped his fingers. "Hey, aren't you Nancy Doyle, from our AP classes? How'd you get roped into this?"

"Heh. Ask Vampirella here," Nancy said. "And, yup. That'd be me."

No wonder Joel hadn't recognized her at first. Doyle's normally nearly black hair had lightened to a kind of dark brown with reddish highlights, and had grown since he'd seen her last – in class on Friday, as a matter of fact. She was currently wearing it in a long single braid down her back. And apparently she'd, uh, grown at least a cup size...

Shelia looked at him and Amy, and shrugged. "Ran into her Halloween night, after I left the Fish Tank, when she wasn't herself."

"Oh?" Amy blinked, and stared at the other girl. "So, what'd you go as?" she said.

"Heh. Lara Croft, from the Tomb Raider games," Nancy said, smirking. "Sheesh, boy, was _that_ interesting."

"I'll bet," Joel said. "So, you keep anything?"

"Not so much as you'd notice, no," Nancy said, shaking her head. "But I did have to go out and buy new bras the next day. And I'm thinking about taking up archeology and anthropology in college."

Amy grinned, and said, "Bet your social life takes a dramatic upswing."

Nancy rolled her eyes as Shelia snickered. "Oh, joy. Just what I want: brain dead idiots trying to feel me up on dates and having to learn anti-octopus defense," Nancy said. She grinned then, adding, "But it should make getting a date for Homecoming a lot easier."

"I'll bet," Joel said, grinning. "So?"

Shrugging, Nancy said, "Shelia said you guys had something going and could use someone who could manage a computer and keep records. So, color me a personal assistant. But call me your 'buxom secretary' _once_, and I'll break your arm."

"Hah. No worries," Joel said, snickering.

"So... Dresden, huh?" Nancy eyed him a bit dubiously. "Can you really do magic?"

Nodding, Joel shifted the long stick he was carrying to his left hand, and pulled a candle from his duster's pocket. Tossing it to Nancy, he said, "Hold that out to the side, and out front a bit."

"All righty," Nancy said, raising her eyebrows. "But you best not set me on fire."

Joel grinned, snapped his fingers, and said, "Flikum Bicus."

The candle's wick burst into flames, and then the flare subsided and it just sat there and burned steadily.

"Cool," Nancy said.

Shelia and Amy nodded. "I'm impressed," Shelia said.

"I'm gonna have to finish my staff and other foci before I can do much more," Joel said. "But that one I have down pretty well, even already. Probably because Harry did."

"Ok, so, what's the catch?" Amy said. "And the rent, since you mentioned it?"

"Catch is the same as the rent: we get to use it in exchange for cleaning it, painting it, and fixing it up," Shelia said. "Oh – and keeping an eye on the place when we're here."

Joel nodded. He narrowed his eyes thoughtfully, and said, "But, as Nancy said, it's an abandoned building. Isn't that gonna be a problem?"

"Less than it was for Dresden, maybe," Shelia said. "It's not actually abandoned: I know the owner, and he lets me have one of the basement apartments at a greatly reduced rent in exchange for me keeping other vamps and stuff out. And the bottom floor is leased out by an AARMA group that meets here a couple of times a week, plus weekends. It's just the other side across the courtyard that's completely empty."

"Nice," Amy said. "How'd you manage that?"

"Saved the owner kinda by accident from one of Spike's minions not long after I told him and Crazy Dru to go piss up a rope," Shelia said. "And I wasn't hungry, so we started talking after we got past the whole 'Gah! What da fuq wassat!' thing."

"Lucky for him, then," Joel said. "Uh, less than for Dresden?"

"Yeah," Shelia said. "A couple of the AARMA people live at the back of the AARMA studio and offices, so the place has a slight threshold, at least."

Joel nodded. "Means something to hang wards on, once I relearn how."

"ARMA?" Nancy said, raising her eyebrows.

"The American Association for Renaissance Martial Arts – AARMA," Shelia said. "Buncha loons who like reconstructing medieval fencing and beating on each other with blunted swords and rapiers. Pretty cool, actually."

"Huh. And they're the only tenants?" Amy said.

"Up 'til now, yeah, 'ceptin' for me," Shelia said. "Guy's been having a major problem leasing the place, or even selling it, since the owners of the New Age Bookstore that used to be downstairs on the other side got eaten by something."

"Ouch." Joel eyed the large canvas and leather case that Shelia had brought up with her. "So, what's in the bag?"

"Was wondering when one of you were gonna get around to asking that," Shelia said, smirking. She nudged it over with the toe of her boot, and then knelt down beside it and opened and unfolded it.

"Yikes!" Amy said, her eyes widening, and Joel whistled softly.

"Ok, so, where'd those come from?" Nancy asked, looking curiously at the contents.

"Heh. Acquired them from the gun shop that that Terminator thing shot up and looted on Halloween," Shelia said, smirking again.

"You've got a bunch of stolen guns?" Amy said, her eyes going even wider. She edged a bit farther back from the case, and added, "I'm not sure I even want to know you now."

"Naw. Not since Larry the Terminator killed both Wiley and his son, they're not, really," Shelia said. "Think of them less as 'stolen', and more as 'appropriated unclaimed property'. Considering that there's no heirs, or so reliable scuttlebutt has it, and they'll all go to the State of California for destruction, most likely, it's more of a rescue, really."

"Uh huh," Nancy said, crossing her arms over her chest. "Not sure that the cops or the ATF are gonna see it that way."

"Well, considering that the gun shop's log books and a number of forty forms, uh, vanished about the same time these did," Shelia said, "They'll have a hard time coming up with that. Minors in illegal possession of firearms is about the best they'll do."

"Sigh. Interesting way to start off a career as a Private Investigator's sidekick," Joel said, shaking his head.

"Partner, not sidekick," Shelia said. "And, hey – considering how often the _real_ Dresden lugged around his guns in a state with a _no_ issue policy, plus having a sawed off shotgun, _you've_ got no room to talk."

"True, that," Nancy said, nodding. "But _Dresden_ had friends on the police force."

"Details, shmetails," Shelia said. "Rumor has it that Interim Chief Stein has a brain and is pretty cool. Go forth and make you some friends, Joel-Harry."

Shrugging, Nancy knelt down after a moment and began looking over the various firearms. Passing over several, she picked up an HK USP Target and began to examine it carefully.

"Careful with that," Amy began –

Shooting her a pained look, Nancy sighed and said, "Believe me: after Halloween night, I _more_ than know what I'm doing with these."

"If you say so," Amy said. "Wait – y_ou've_ got a sawed off shotgun in there," she added.

"Naw. Minimum legal length, or Wiley's couldn't sell it," Shelia said. "And a Smith & Wesson Bodyguard .38, and a seven shot .357 for Harry there. No Dirty Harry Special, sorry – didn't see one, and didn't have time to spend a lot of time looking after I broke in. So there's an eight and three-eighths inch S&W .45 Colt instead."

"Gee, I guess I'll make do," Joel said, kneeling down by the open case to look the stuff over. "See you got you a few toys, also. Uh, John Wayne?" he added, referring to the large loop John Wayne Commemorative Winchester and the Steve McQueen style mare's leg in the case.

"Hey, always liked Wanted Dead or alive in reruns on Westerns Channel," Shelia said, smirking. Picking up the Winchester, she worked the lever, and said, "Besides, from what I've picked up, there's at least a little inherent magic in things that have a lot of associated belief to them, like Holy Water and crosses. And John Wayne is an American, hell, fucking _world_, icon. More people believe in him than in the fucking _Pope_. Truth, justice, and the American way and all that. Winchester too: Gun that Won the West and all." She pointed, adding, "And the big one there is a .50 Express, and that's for you."

"Truth, justice, and the American way? Thought that was Superman," Amy said.

Shelia grinned. "Him, too." The grin broadened and she added, "If'n I didn't think it'd make me burst into flames, I'd get a blue t-shirt with a big red S in a shield, and wear it to ward off other vamps."

"Belief equals magic, in a lot of ways," Joel said, nodding. "The more accumulated belief, the more magical."

"So, uh, Terminator Larry?" Nancy said, her eyebrows going up again. "And, _not_ gonna ask why the firearms – I've read the Dresden Files up to the current one."

"Yup. Magic is cool, but some things react badly to gettin' shot in the head," Shelia said, "_And_ they don't expect it. And... hell, I was _in_ the freaking Fish Tank when Larry fucking Blaisdell came walking in naked and looking like Schwarzenegger and asked some biker for his clothes and ride. Just like in T2."

"Oh, really?" Joel said. "I heard all the rumors about him shooting up the Bronze trying to kill Cordelia. Including the ones about Xander Harris and Jonathan helping him."

Amy snorted. "Yeah, right. I've known both Xander and Jonathan since I was nine. They'll turn into spree killers about the same time Arnold Schwarzenegger runs for Governor."

"Notice you didn't say that about Larry," Nancy said, snickering.

"Heh. Larry Blaisdell's been a bully and a thug for as long as I've known him," Amy said. "_Him_, I believe. He'd be like Jack O'Toole if his parents didn't have money."

"But a _real_ Terminator? Larry _Blaisdell_?" Nancy said, her expression still incredulous.

Shelia's features shifted into game face, and then melted back to human just as quickly and smoothly. "What, you can accept vampires and magic," she said, her voice and expression sardonic, "But you balk at killer robots from der futchah?"

"Cyborg, not robot, and... " Nancy shook her head.

"Hey, just skin and meat over a metal bot chassis and a robot brain," Shelia said, shrugging. "Robot. Android, maybe."

"Ok, point taken on both counts," Nancy said, rolling her eyes. She folded her arms across her chest. "But still, jeeze."

Shelia shrugged again. "I didn't write the fucking script, I'm just living in it."

"And why Cordelia Chase, for crying out loud?" Nancy said, shaking her head. "Is being a vapid designer whore suddenly a capital offense in the future?"

"Hey, again... " Shelia spread her hands, "Script writer, me not. Maybe she's destined to mate with Xander Harris and give birth to John Connor."

"Hah!" Amy said, grinning. "Now, _that_ I can believe. You've always been able to cut the UST between those two with a butter knife. Hostility and all. Talk about your shades of 'Ten Things I Hate About You'."

"Heh. Yeah," Shelia said, nodding. "Shoulda seen her standing up to Kyle and Rhonda for him the summer between eighth and ninth, when Harris swiped Kyle's board. Tor made Kyle handle it alone, and Harris decked his stupid ass."

"I'll buy that for a dollar," Amy said, grinning and nodding. "_Always_ been a case of '_we_ can rip each other's hearts out, but no outsiders need apply' between those two."

"So, anyone ever figure out what did happen on Halloween?" Joel asked, curiously.

Shelia shrugged, and said, "Overheard Trask shaking down Willy for info, and eavesdropped. Apparently, some mage cast a really huge chaos spell on a lot of costumes he sold, and killed himself doing it. Probably not intentionally, but hey, who knows?"

"Wait, that, uh, Ethan Rayne's Costume Emporium place?" Nancy said, blinking and looking stunned. "That's where I bought my costume and gear." Joel and Amy both nodded.

"Uh huh, I 'spect so," Shelia said. "I had to ransom back a bunch of my Goth stuff that my mom sold off after I disappeared, and that Ethan guy bought it from the thrift shop. Got there right after freaking sundown and just before he closed up, too – bet that's what happened to me that night."

"Trask? And, Willy?" Joel asked.

"Uh huh. Willy's Alibi Room. Demon bar up in the industrial section. One of four in town. And _Trask_," Shelia said, "Is a really mean and badass vamp, and the Mayor's special assistant-slash-troubleshooter."

All three of the others blinked at that one. Joel absently closed the cylinder on the S&W .45 Colt he'd been examining, and knelt there holding it while his mind raced around in circles. "Ok, that would explain a few things..."

"Yeah, doesn't it just?" Shelia said, smirking. "Of course, hardly anyone knows that Wilkins controls most of the supernatural here, just like Daddy Wilkins did, and his granddaddy before that. Almost everyone knows that Trask has a serious heavy hitter behind him, just not who it is. The few who do, don't talk about it for fucking love nor money."

"So, how'd you find out?" Nancy asked.

"Followed Trask and his goons around a few times," Shelia said. "They always end up at City Hall late at night, and the Mayor's office is always lit up. Snuck in once or twice and listened in."

Joel whistled. "If you were equipped that way, I'd say you had a pair."

Amy nodded. "Ok, so... demon bars?"

"Yeah," Shelia said. "Four of 'em, and one other place. Willy's and Red's, which are where most of the wanna be bad asses and the not-so-hostile stuff hangs out. Hostile enough, though: wouldn't recommend going to either one for a regular human. Squisher's Basement on the waterfront, which is where the real, serious bad asses and hard cases hang out. _Squisher's_ is actually more or less safe for humans as long as you don't try to throw your nonexistent weight around. And Damien's, which is up scale for the wealthier types. Plus an assortment of odds and ends of hole in the walls and other supernatural establishments."

"Oh-kay... " Nancy said. "Well, this is turning out to be educational." Joel and Amy nodded, both looking a bit nonplussed.

"Hey, we've got a population of around thirty-nine hunnert, not counting the Old Carpinteria district," Shelia said. "Add in that, and not counting the transient population from UCS and Crestwood, and the beach hotels and airport district, and we still hit closer to forty-five thou. 'Kay? So... there's another quarter _again_ of that that's all supernatural population, and all under the radar and off the census."

"Wow." Everyone else blinked at her, absorbing that little factoid.

"Uh huh," Shelia said. "Plus a goblin market up in Durgan's Wood past the military base, just a hop down the Ghost Roads and one over into the Never-After. The freaking Hellmouth makes this place a fucking vacation mecca for supernaturals of every description. They come to bask in the glow and soak up some mystical rays, dudes and dudettes."

"Wait, whoa, time out," Joel said, making the universal sigh for it. "_Hellmouth_?"

"Ah. Guess I forgot to mention that, huh?" Shelia grinned like a shark at their stunned expressions. "Yeah, there's a gateway to the Nether Realms under my old alma mater."

"Wait," Nancy said. "_Our_ high school?"

"Yeah. Cooler than shit, huh?"

"Not _exactly_ the term I'm gonna use for it," Amy said, scowling. "I'm gonna freaking _strangle_ Willow and Xander for not bothering to fill me in."

"Maybe they didn't know," Shelia said, shrugging.

"Oh, please," Amy said, rolling her eyes. "Didn't know, my witchy butt. With that bit with my mom? And Buffy? They _had_ to know."

"Ah. Right." Shelia shrugged again. "Well, assuming you can ever get to _see_ Cordy and Xander again."

"Ah, yeah, right," Amy said, slumping a bit.

Cordelia and Xander's arrests and Cordelia's being sent to mental max security for 'psychiatric eval' and Xander being under serious police guard at Sunnydale Memorial had been all _over_ the news today. As had the news about the murders of Xander's and Cordy's parents, and the shootings out by Willow's house. All channels, all networks. Even CNN and FYI.

And no one here, not even Shelia, believed the bits about the two of them shooting cops and killing people. Cordelia Chase and Xander _Harris_? Get fucking real, as Shelia would put it.

Joel shook his head in vague disbelief, a sense of unreality sweeping over him twice as intensely as that from Halloween night. "I can see we have a lot to learn. And a lot of information trading to do."

"Yeah," Shelia said, nodding. "But you can see where there might be a lot of work for a Wizard Investigator here, huh?"

"Yeah." Joel nodded. "I'm starting to." He looked around the old office with a new perspective. "Well, as you said, this place has potential. Guess I better hurry up and finish my staff and blasting rod."

He slid the Smith & Wesson forty-five into and through his belt under his duster, and bent to pick up the .38 and .357. "Got any ammo for these?"

* * *

.


End file.
